


Darling, All I Know Are Sad Songs

by Espoir



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Angst, Ariadne is the awesome roommate best friend, Beyond the Lights AU, Celebrity AU, Eames is a total babe, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mal is kind of a bitch, Protective Eames, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Superstar Arthur, the Daily Mail are awful
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2018-07-22 08:49:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7428163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Espoir/pseuds/Espoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a global singing superstar, struggling to deal with his rapid rise to fame.</p><p>Eames is the London police officer who talks him out of jumping off his hotel balcony.</p><p>---</p><p>He thinks of Arthur, gently crooning on the radio as he plays a lazy jazz piece, fingers tripping up the keys, his voice a warm familiar cadence as Eames waltzs Ariadne around their postage stamp of a kitchen on a Sunday morning.</p><p>He thinks of the headlines - YOUNG STAR PLUNGES TO HIS DEATH IN TRAGIC SUICIDE - thinks of Ariadne, how she’d inevitably cry for weeks, of the thousands of fans who would line the streets of New York for his funeral-</p><p>And then he thinks of this 21-year-old kid in front of him, feet dangling into nothingness, shivering from the cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> !! So it's the 6th year Inception anniversary today and I've been working on this for a while and thought WHY NOT so decided to celebrate by publishing this. I've got some 30,000 words of it written up at this point and will be publishing the rest on a semi-regular basis no doubt.
> 
> I can't believe it's been 6 years since Inception came out. Holy hell. Why I am still here writing fic. Why did these particular characters make this huge an impression on me. Will I ever really move on. Probably not.
> 
> Many, many things have contributed to this fic in terms of inspiration, and I will credit most of those at the end to prevent spoilers. The main one however is a truly charming film called ‘Beyond the Lights’ that I ended up watching twice in two days (a massive rarity for me) because I thought it was such a wonderful story. I follow the plot pretty closely for the first part of this fic, and then go off completely on my own tangent. That film seriously did not get the media coverage it deserved. If you like angsty romance and celebrity AUs 11/10 would recommend.
> 
> Title credit goes to Mike Posner and his original version of 'I Took A Pill in Ibiza'. More on him later. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy it! As always comments make my day like nothing else so if you get chance please do let me know what you think :)

“What’s your name?”

Arthur clears his throat, mic slipping in his sweaty palms. The cough echoes back to him in the huge speakers on either side of the stage.

“Arthur,” he says into the microphone and his voice cracks, the sound amplified a thousand times over.

From the never-ending tide of audience in front of him, stretching up into the darkness beyond the lights, Arthur hears people titter. Someone near the front _awws_. 

“And what are you going to sing for us today Arthur?” The male judge is a near-fluorescent orange under the stage lights, his shoulders pulling at the stitches of his suit, warped with protein-pumped muscle.

“[A Wink and Smile](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TIwqw_2J6H8&ab_channel=2KB), by Harry Connick Junior,” Arthur says, and then, before they can ask any further questions he ducks in an awkward preliminary bow, turns to his piano and starts to play.

Jazz he knows. Jazz he can play, and sing, decently enough he thought, and he blocked out the audience and judges and stage lights until it was nothing but his voice and his fingers on the keys.

Later, when he’s received a standing ovation and he’s breathless from it, from the unexpected the thrill of having created such a shift in the theatre’s atmosphere, of seeing so many nameless people beaming up at him, waving and screaming – later, the questions come.

“Why did you decide to sing that particular song?” the female judge asks, wiping away a single, carefully-timed tear.

“It was my parents’ song,” Arthur says, “Sleepless in Seattle was their favourite film, and my Dad would play the piano and sing it to my Mom. He taught me to play,” and he waves his fingers vaguely.

“And where are your parents today?” the female judge presses, a hand clutched to her chest as though she already knows what Arthur’s going to say.

And because Arthur doesn’t know about sob stories on talent shows and because he’s always been good at dealing with direct questions under pressure, he answers honestly.

_MOST EMOTIONAL STORY ON AMERICA’S GOT TALENT EVER? WE THINK SO_

_ORPHANED 17-YEAR-OLD WITH HEARTBREAKING STORY WOW JUDGES_

_STANDING OVATION FOR ORPHAN TEENAGE BOY WITH INCREDIBLE VOICE_

_ARTHUR ABRAMS: AMERICA’S ANSWER TO JUSTIN BIEBER?_

His audition clip goes viral. It racks up 12 million views in under a week.

Arthur later comes to appreciate that the media hype was to be expected. He ticked every single box he didn’t even know existed. He was young, unknown, decent-looking, could actually play a musical instrument while singing and had the ultimate tragic backstory. Arthur didn’t know what the judges who’d eyed up a skinny 17-year-old in an ill-fitting suit had expected, but a heartfelt and pitch perfect acoustic rendition of the 1990s classic probably wasn’t it.

He progresses to the next round, and America’s media turn up at the kid’s home for photos and interviews. The other children love it; Arthur has been there barely 3 months and he’s brought with him the most excitement they’ve ever seen. Even the staff get caught up in it, and during his time on the show Arthur gets used to having staff members compete to be his chaperone.

He gets through to the judge’s houses, but Simon Cowell tells him straight up that he lacks ‘the drive and soul’ to make it. “Come back in a few years kid,” he says, and puts a fatherly hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “You’ve got great talent, but you need a strong personality to survive this business.”

Arthur says in later interviews that at the time he was devastated, that the failure became the driving force behind his passion to succeed; but in truth all he can remember is feeling cripplingly uncomfortable about the hand on his shoulder. If he is honest, he hadn’t expected to get this far. He’d just wanted to sing, because at that point he’d had nothing to lose by doing so.

The public however, is less forgiving.

Films of live reactions to Arthur’s elimination, most of which feature screaming and sobbing 14-year-old girls are all over Facebook and Reddit. A petition on change.org in protest of Cowell’s decision and unnecessarily harsh personal criticism gains nearly a million signatures.  Child psychologists on Fox News say that another closed door in Arthur’s life is going to jeopardise his recovery from the ‘trauma of his childhood.’ Tom Hanks shares the audition clip on his Twitter and it passes 50 million views.

Record labels and companies wanting to sign America’s most talked about 17-year-old come knocking at the kid’s home door 24/7 now, even though the show is over. The media strain is beginning to grate on the staff. The other children start to become resentful of all the attention focused on Arthur. He isn’t even a proper orphan, they say, he’s basically an adult.

It’s incredible and hugely, astonishingly overwhelming. Arthur wanted to play, wanted to sing, but suddenly he’s juggling 6 potential contracts and the legal infringement of having to wait until he’s 18 until he ages out of state care. The requests for appearances and invitations to parties and events are flattering but far too much for him to even try and coordinate. There is no one on his side, no one to show him where to go next, though countless offer.

It’s a cold Wednesday morning in November when Arthur meets Mal and Dom. They are introduced to him as ‘another label’ and Arthur has seen 4 already this week and feels, quite honestly, on the brink of tears.

Mal is like no-one else he’s ever seen before; stunningly beautiful with dark cropped hair curling at her jawline, a silver torque sitting on her collar bones.

“I am sorry to intrude - you look exhausted,” she tells him with a lilting French accent, and then pulls Arthur into a hug without a second’s hesitation. Arthur is so inexplicably grateful and so very very tired that he does tear up then.

It’s the first time he’s cried since his parents died.

She holds him at arms-length and fixes him with a searching look, her eyes warmly sympathetic. “And that _idiote_ Simon does not know what he is talking about – you have personality. You have heart. We will help you show them you have both, and more. We will show them _mon cheri.”_

Mal and Dom officially become Arthur’s foster parents to get him out of the home, and no one really blinks an eyelid at the slightly underhand implication of Arthur being fostered by a company because Cobb Records is so small it’s barely worth considering as a business.

Arthur moves into their converted attic in the January, and as a late Christmas present they’ve gifted him a beautiful Yamaha upright and an acoustic guitar and Arthur lies on the bed, listening to Mal clattering pans for crepes to celebrate his arrival down in the kitchen, breathing in the smell of clean, new sheets and fabric softener, and staring up at the skylight, at the rectangle Boston sky, shockingly blue with wispy winter clouds and squeezes his hands so tightly together they hurt and thinks, _Mom would be so relieved._

It’s his first night in a bed he can properly call his own in 2 years but Arthur doesn’t sleep.

He writes pages on pages of lyrics and hums melodies and strums at the guitar and feels, for the first time since it all happened, that things are going to be alright.

 

* * *

 

Arthur records a couple of acoustic covers, and then has a stab at a few original tracks. Thanks to his online fame they sell reasonably well and Arthur performs at one low-grade charity concert. There’s a girl about his age who catches him in the trailer park afterwards and asks for his photograph, hands shaking as she tell him how much she loves his singing, how grateful she is that he’s bringing back jazz and blues-style music. It’s incredible to him, that he can sing and people will not only listen but _enjoy_ it that much.

Mal says he’s barely scratching the surface of his potential, and Dom suggests they drop the acoustic jazz for the time being and take a trip to the Sony studios, and the rest, as they say, is history.

His first pop single, ‘On Point’, is the fastest first single to number one of the year. It’s insanely catchy with a riff that Dom is in raptures over, and even though Arthur is staggered by the money it brings in, they agree that half of all the proceeds should go to children’s foster charities.

Mal consults designers and stylists and his ‘look’ becomes as important as lyric writing and voice-coaching. Arthur stars in the music video for his song; he wears a tailored suit for the first time and feels fucking invincible.

‘Suit Up’ sells so well in the first 24 hours that Mal cries, actual tears of joy, and Arthur makes another music video and wears a fedora this time because it’s set in the 1920s, all film noir and grainy black and white.

And because he’s now 20, in the last 30 seconds of the video, he takes off his tie and undoes the top bottom of his shirt.

The internet goes insane.

He does a shoot for GQ without a shirt at all and the sale figures go through the roof.

“You are the laziest and unhealthiest boy I have ever met to have abdominal muscles,” Mal complains one afternoon in the studio, but fondly, because Arthur has bought donuts for her as well as him.

“Hey,” Arthur protests, “it’s called being _toned_ , not having abs. And I think you’ll find I do do sit-ups. Occasionally.”

“They’re calling you the next young Leonardo DiCaprio,” Dom says, glasses perched on his nose and scrolling through his iPad – a semi-permanent state of his. His brow furrows a little. “Though I can’t say I see the resemblance.”

“Arthur doesn’t need to be the ‘next’ anything,” Mal drawls, “he is beautiful and talented in his own right,” and then she pulls Arthur down onto the sofa and steals his donut.

Genetics play a part in his popularity, Arthur won’t deny that, and though he’d never thought being dark-haired, pale and decidedly skinny would necessarily appeal to the masses, apparently it does. On a terrifying scale.

“If you were just looks, mon cheri,” Mal tells him late one night at a party when self-doubt at his talent is starting to creep in and the beginnings of the sunrise glow are spilling across the Los Angeles hills behind her, “you would have died a death a long time ago.”

He is given a chance to prove himself when James Corden invites him to do a carpool karaoke, and Arthur not only sings so well it trends on Twitter for a week, but also returns Corden’s quips with cuttingly sarcastic and brazen responses of his own. He starts seeing giffed versions of him raising an eyebrow or trying to hide his smile in Buzzfeed articles. Ellen insists on him coming on her show, and Arthur is charming and self-deprecating and quietly self-assured and _funny_ too. He plays his version of ‘Wink and a Smile’ on the show and Ellen is in awe.

Jazz isn’t easy. His father had taught him that starting with raw inspiration, with what many deemed the hardest form of music performance – everything else would feel easier, and it’s true. Arthur doesn’t write his music down, he has learnt to compose and memorise simultaneously, and it is only explaining this process to others that he realises it’s a bit of an unprecedented way to do things.

Ed Sheeran calls him ‘the next big thing’. Selena Gomez praises his timeless style and sass, and posts an Instagram selfie of the two of them with nothing but love-hearts in the caption that fuels dating rumours for months. Michael Bublé compares him to Frank Sinatra offhand in an interview, and TIME magazine labels him the ‘male soloist answer to Adele.’ Mal has to employ a small army of people to tackle the hundreds of phone calls Cobb Records now receive every day.

America loves him.

And then Calvin Harris emails one day and suggests a collaboration, and ‘Worth a Shot’ is the fastest selling download of the decade.

At some point, Arthur realises in a moment of near-hysteria, financially he never needs to work another day in his life if he doesn’t want to.

Mal tells him again that he is barely scratching the surface of his potential. So he keeps taking interviews, he has photos taken at the right time with the right people in the right places. He wears suits as often as he can and isn’t followed around by dating rumours because he doesn’t date. He maintains a track-record of charm and humility and note-perfect live performances and he is every PR manager’s dream.

He grows up of course, but in all the best ways. 4 years down the line the 17-year-old who stood awkwardly on a stage and sang 90s jazz has been traded in for a new model. He’s 21, impeccably dressed, insanely talented and immensely sellable.

At the end of the year, Mal throws a ‘50th’ party for the record company, because Forbes releases the estimates that Arthur is now worth $50 million.

The world, as people keep telling him, is at his feet.

 

* * *

  

“Arthur!”

“Hey Arthur, over here!-“

“How are you doing today Arthur? Excited about tomorrow?”

“Arthur! Can I have a photo? Please?”

“Arthur is it true your collab with Hozier was more than just a friendship?”

“Hey! Arthur - Arthur! Give us a smile man!”

Arthur ducks his head and resolutely does not smile. He’s wearing dark glasses but the camera flashes still make his head spin. Saito’s firm hand on his shoulder is the only thing keeping him going in the right direction. Hell, it’s the only thing keeping him upright at this point.

They make it through the paparazzi, finally, and Arthur practically runs into the revolving door of the hotel lobby.

“I though the British paparazzi were supposed to be less aggressive,” he mutters.

“They might not be TMZ, but they have the _Daily Mail_ in this country,” Saito says, sounding mildly repulsed.

Mal follows them in, immaculately turned out in a black and white peplum dress. She looks like Audrey Hepburn- except she’s frowning.

“Arthur, you won’t have a single decent photo out there. Did you not see the fans? These are the people you have to _thank_ for being here. Go now - get changed and come back to give autographs.”

She’s not even looking at him, but tapping away with manicured nails on her tablet.

Arthur’s head is aching. It’s been over a week since they flew into London but he feels as though the jetlag is still lingering in his joints, telling his body to shut down. He can still see the flashing bulbs in his peripheral.

He must sway a little, because Saito’s hand is back on his shoulder, his face concerned.

Mal looks up, nose pinching when she sees Arthur hasn’t moved.

“The McQueen suit Arthur. We need to demonstrate your support for British labels. I will give a statement to the reporters on your behalf.”

Arthur nods, but still doesn’t move.

Mal rolls her eyes, tuts impatiently. “ _Maintanent,_ Arthur, we do not have all day.”

So Arthur goes.

 

* * *

 

**_ARTHUR ENJOYS SIGHTSEEING AROUND LONDON IN LEAD UP TO THE BRIT AWARDS… BUT AVOIDS GREETING FANS_ **

_By_ [ _GEORGIA ROBINSON, UK CHIEF REPORTER FOR MAILONLINE_ ](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/search.html?s=&authornamef=Martin+Robinson,+Uk+Chief+Reporter+For+Mailonline)

**_PUBLISHED:_ ** _14:31, 24 FEBRURARY 2016_

_Arthur, as he is monoymously known, has been hailed as America’s answer to Adele and has finally made the trip over to his rival’s home country._

_The 21-year-old, who Taylor Swift called ‘the voice of this generation’, is in London for the Brit Awards taking place tonight, but has spent the last week exploring the capital._

_“It’s a beautiful city,” his manager Mal was quoted as saying outside Arthur’s hotel earlier today, “and Arthur is definitely enjoying seeing the sites and meeting people. He knows how much support he receives from British fans and is excited to meet them in person.”_

_‘Excited’ wasn’t the word that was used to describe him earlier however, when Arthur walked straight past queues of fans, some who had been waiting hours, into his hotel._

_“I’ve been here since 8:30 this morning,” Sara, 18, and from Reading said, “I’ve been a fan ever since I saw his audition tape. I won’t lie, it was pretty heartbreaking to see him walk past without so much at a glance at us.”_

_Arthur did later emerge, clad in a bespoke McQueen suit, but declined to speak to reporters. He signed a dozen autographs and spoke briefly to fans._

_“Maybe he’s got food-poisoning,” Emily, 16, suggested, “he looked kinda pale. He’s usually really generous with fans, but he seemed a bit ‘off’ today. I hope he’s okay.”_

_With Arthur set to perform his record-breaking single, ‘Worth a Shot’ at the opening of the Brit Awards tonight, we hope he’s okay too. This is not the first time Arthur has been ‘off’ in recent months. At his performance at the American Music Awards late last November commentators noted the singer appeared to have lost a significant amount of weight, and at drinks with friend Calvin’s and his new bae Taylor Swift, photos showed him looking tired and unsmiling. It’s been an upward spiral of success for the young star so far, from destitute orphan with little future to a global superstar in under five years, but perhaps there’s trouble brewing in paradise?_

“You cannot be _‘off_ ’ Arthur,” Mal says, coldly, and slams the tablet a little too hard onto the table in front of him.

Arthur skim-reads the Daily Mail article in front of him. There’s approximately a million and one photos of the 5-metre walk Arthur had made earlier that day from the taxi to the hotel door, and in most of them Saito is blocking any decent view of Arthur anyway.

The photos from his signing later on aren’t much better. Even Arthur admits his smile looks strained.

At least his suit looks good.

“I’m sorry, I’m guess I’m still just a bit jetlagged,” he says, pushing the tablet back onto the table.

Mal throws her hands up in frustration. “We have been in this _hideous_ country for 4 days Arthur! This is not an excuse!”

“We don’t get to take a day off from this Arthur, you know that,” Dom is lounging on the bed, _Arthur’s_ bed Arthur notes with a twinge of annoyance, and he sounds disappointed. “None of us do. You have to pull your weight constantly.”

“Speaking of, I warned you people would start to notice that you are losing weight,” Mal reprimands, and jabs a finger at the screen. In the photo Arthur’s reaching out to sign someone’s notepad, and his wrist looks veiny and thin, the shirt gaping. “We do not have time for tailored readjustments Arthur. Have you not been taking the protein supplements I gave you? You will soon be more stick than man. We can advertise ‘slim’ not ‘skeleton’. Anorexia is very unbecoming in men.”

There are many problematic things that Arthur could dissect about what Mal has just said, but it’s too much like effort.

Arthur shakes his head, “I’m sorry,” he says, not really feeling it, “I’ve been forgetting them.”

Mal, whips away the iPad. “You are a _useless_ child, _mon dieu,_ sometimes I question why I bother.”

“We can provide the stylists Arthur,” Dom says, and his eyes are pinched again, “but you bring the rest. Photoshop can only do so much. Your physical image-“

“-is as important as my metaphorical one, I know,” Arthur says. He does know this. He’s heard it enough times.

“Then _act like_ _it_ ,” Mal hisses, “I have to go see Jeffrey,” and she storms out of the room.

Arthur makes no move to stop her. Mal is French; she has to storm off at least once a day. It’s practically part of her contract.

Dom eases himself off the bed, grunting and groaning about aching joints. He’s barely got a decade on Arthur but the whole fostering thing made him somehow feel entitled to claim fatherhood.

He crosses the room, and slaps a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

“Look, we know you’re still young. We know you’ve been working hard these past months. But this is a great achievement. Winning this award is going to be –“

“I’m nominated Dom,” Arthur reminds him dully, he feels like he’s said this too many times as well, “I haven’t won anything yet.”

Dom’s hand tightens so much on his shoulder Arthur feels the bones creak a little.

“No point in being a runner-up Arthur. _Winning_ this award is going to be a game-changer. It’s going to catapult you onto the global stage. It’s going to affirm what everyone has already been saying. Your first album drops in a month, and the preorder sales are off the charts already. You’re a poster boy of the American Dream; a talented young man with a squeaky clean record and a voice like a goddamn angel. Every girl wants to be _with_ you, and every guy wants to _be_ you. After this the world is going to be at your feet, okay? Then everything you’ve worked for, everything _we’ve_ worked for will feel like it’s been worth it.”

Dom speaks with such conviction it’s as though he’s going to summon his ambitions into reality through sheer will power.

“We can take a break after you finish the album tour, but for now we _have_ to capitalize on your popularity. You never know how long it’s going to last.”

Arthur nods. He’s hands feel jittery, and he starts counting back the hours to when he last had a coffee.

“Alright!” Dom says, jubilant from his pep-talk. “Let’s get you to June. Then that’ll be at least one less thing for Mal to get mad at us about.”

 

* * *

 

Eames is woken up, as usual, by Stevie licking his face.

He groans, and rolls face-first into his pillow, batting the dog away with a hand.

Except Stevie is nothing if not stubborn, and, mildly offended by Eames’s less-than-enthusiastic attitude, pauses for about a second before launching himself onto the bed, and Eames. The springs squeak alarmingly and Stevie barks happily.

“Alright, alright,” Eames tells him, as Stevie nuzzles at his face, pushing him with his nose towards the edge of the bed, “I’m moving, okay?”

This was the routine; the clock ticked over to 7am, and Stevie came to wake Eames up. Not out of any training to serve as a canine alarm clock, but because his old owner had given Stevie his breakfast every day at that time. And apparently Stevie wasn’t going to forget that fact any time soon.

Eames trudges into the kitchen, head woozy from getting up too fast.

Ariadne is already there, yawning so widely Eames can see her tonsils.

“Charming.”

Ariadne’s jaw audibly cracks around her yawn, and she throws Eames a dark look.

“Y’know Stevie has taken to waking me up as well?”

“Your alarm’s set for 6:30 anyway isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t mean I appreciate the dog slobber in my hair at this time of day. Or, any time of day really.”

Stevie thumps his tail against, the floor, tongue lolling.

“You are a truly terrible service dog,” Ariadne tells him, and then promptly drops to the floor, “I’m sorry I didn’t _actually_ mean that Steve. You’re really a very good boy,” she coos, scratching behind his ears as he licks her face all over again.

“You are such a dog slut,” Eames says.

Ariadne looks disturbed. “Eames that’s a disturbing turn of phrase.”

“Hey, you were the one who said, ‘absolutely not, no dogs allowed,’ and now spend your life _apologizing_ to him. Draw your own conclusions.”

“You know full well that I had to retract _some_ of my very strict conditions on the basis that-“

“On the basis that I was offering you a room in Soho for a song?” Eames says, smiling.

Ariadne sniffs delicately. “The affordability swung the deal in your favour, this is true.”

Eames scoffs, and layers marmite on his toast. Ariadne wasn’t really paying any rent at all – Eames had inherited the apartment outright from his great Aunt Noreen, but Ariadne had balked at the prospect of not paying _anything_ seeing as she’d known Eames for all of 4 days at the time he offered her the room.

Most of Ariadne’s rent money went straight into dog food, but Eames had a feeling Ariadne knew that.

Stevie nudges at Eames’ hand, and looks up at him imploring. Eames sighs and sets about pouring kibble.

“Genuinely, it worries me how food motivated he is. One day we’ll wake up and the entire kitchen will just be decimated,” Ariadne says, sitting on the worktop to tuck into her cereal.

“Food-motivation is part of what makes labs so genetically trainable. It’s why they make good guide dogs in the first place.”

Stevie is so excited by the prospect of his nearly-ready breakfast that he spins round in a full circle too quickly, and falls heavily into the dresser. He’s back on his feet in a micro-second, panting happily.

Ariadne laughs. “Oh buddy, there really wasn’t any question why you lost the job.”

The little old lady who had lived in the studio flat opposite them had experienced a rapid decline of sight about a month after Eames moved in. A guide dog was supposed to help her out and about shopping, but, as Eames heard many, _many_ times at great length, though well-intentioned as a dog, Stevie was an appalling guide.

The old lady had confessed she was planning to send him back, and Eames, who’d gone a bit soft for Stevie, and had absolutely no business taking on a dog in a tiny apartment alongside a full-time job, couldn’t bear the thought of him going to someone else.

So Stevie, the Wonder Dog, had come to live with Eames.

“You got a long shift today?” Ariadne prompts.

“Probably. At least till 8.”

Ariadne pulls a face.

“Hey, if you can find a way to solve London crime rates and get home for tea, then I’d love to hear it,” Eames leans over to pull on one of her plaits. Ariadne has taken to sleeping in plaits to try and keep her hair under some semblance of control. Eames admires her efforts, but they’re always a complete mess in the morning.

Eames loves his job, he really does, but if there’s any downside it’s the unsociable hours. Particularly as a run of the mill constable.

(If anyone had told Eames aged 14 that he would grow up to be a policeman, Eames – who had spent his 14th birthday in hospital recovering from multiple stab wounds – would have laughed in their face. Growing up on the streets of London had not been easy, but the copper who hadn’t cuffed him and had instead taken him to one side and seriously suggested he start spending more time at school and less time getting his head kicked in had made an impression.)

“It’s just going to be a really nice afternoon is all,” Ariadne wheedles, “thought we could take Stevie somewhere.”

Eames considers. “How about an evening stroll? We could hike up to Primrose Hill. There’s still that bottle of Prosecco your gran sent us.”

“Sent _me_ , Eames, for my _birthday_.”

“What we have in this house we share,” Eames intones somberly, and rifles through the never-ending pile of mail on the kitchen island.

“Speaking of,” and he wafts the internet bill in front of her nose.

Ariadne jumps off the worktop. “Bye Stevie!” she says, and flees to her room.

Eames shakes his head, smiling despite himself. Ariadne doesn’t get much from working at the art gallery, but though she’s to the date on-time with paying her ‘rent’, pinning her down about bills is another matter entirely.

He clatters his plate and Ariadne’s bowl into the sink to deal with later, and gives Stevie a rough pat. The clock perched precariously on the fridge reads 7:36. Shit. He’s late.

Stevie races after him as he practically runs back into his bedroom, and leaps onto the bed, barking happily.

 

* * *

 

Arthur hears his name, and the screams are so loud they filter out to white noise.

Mal is crying beautifully, just a few errant tears of joy snaking down her cheeks. She doesn’t kiss him – can’t smudge the make-up – but she hugs him.

Arthur can’t remember the last time Mal hugged him.

Dom is blinking furiously and slaps him so hard on the back Arthur nearly stumbles, but then someone finally pushes him in the right direction, and he weaves through tables and up onto the stage.

He shakes the hand of the presenter, some British guy he vaguely recognizes from a reality show he saw in a hotel room once, and takes to the podium.

He knows exactly what he’s going to say, because Mal had scripted it out two weeks ago.

“I’m honestly so overwhelmed right now. This is a huge, huge honor and I can’t believe that against such impressive competition the academy decided to go for the kid who has barely 3 singles to his name.”

The audience laughs.

“I’m so pleased and proud to have been welcomed into this incredible industry. I started as a terrified 17-year-old with big ideas but no real hope of them ever coming to anything. Tonight has proved that 17-year-old completely wrong. I’d firstly like to thank my managers, Mal and Dom, and the continuous hard work of all those at Cobb Records. I’d also like to thank Jeffery and June, for making sure I look as good as I do,” he smiles, slightly self-deprecating, a little knowing.

The audience goes wild.

“And I’d also like to thank Simon Cowell,” he tips the trophy at the camera, “without whom I most certainly wouldn’t have gone down the, uh, _relatively_ successful path I have done.”

The audience, if possible, gets louder.

“- and of course I’d like to thank Calvin, for asking me to collaborate with him. It was such a privilege and I’m so glad you guys liked what resulted from that process. I hope you’ll enjoy my album-“

More screams.

“- which is coming out imminently, just as much. Most of all however, I’d like to thank…”

At this point, Arthur looks down at the podium. He counts to three. Mal had written the numbers out on the script in her fluid, French cursive.

He looks up into the camera, his expression schooled to something far more serious.

“I’d like to thank my parents. I wish more than anything they could have been here with us tonight. I hope I would have made them proud. Thank you.”

Arthur ducks a little in a bow, and the applause rises up around him like a never-ending tidal wave of sound.

Except –

The applause actually _is_ rising. He’s being given a standing ovation.

On one of the huge screens lining the room, Arthur sees his own surprised face, magnified exponentially, and then the camera is panning amongst the applauding artists, all on their feet.

He doesn’t know how he should feel, but he suspects that ‘empty’ isn’t a common emotion reported by award winners.

“Man, you fucking _aced_ that acceptance speech,” Justin Bieber tells him later in some side corridor, “I wish I could talk the talk like you. Jesus, how the fuck have you only been around for like 2 years?”

“Um, thanks,” Arthur says, “Sorry, I’ve got to head back-“

“You not coming out?” Justin looks at Arthur like he’s grown a second head. “Dude you just won a fucking _Brit_ award. The world is kissing your ass right now. Every girl out there would _pay_ to _literally_ kiss your ass.”

“No unscheduled nights out,” Arthur shrugs, “tough managers, it is what it is.”

“Huh,” Justin seems deeply disturbed by this, “you need to sort that out. Let them cut you some slack yeah? You deserve it. Or fire them – that works too.”

“Arthur! The car’s here,” Mal calls him from the top of the stairs. “Come on now. Dom and I will follow you.”

The paparazzi are back with a vengeance, and the flashing is incessant. In the half light of the car lot, Arthur feels like he’s walking through a strobe lighting show. There are fans screaming, and he knows he should go and smile, go and sign notebooks and photos and pose for selfies, but he clambers straight into the car, his knees feeling a little weak with panic.

Jeffery and June, his stylist and make-up artist, join him seconds later.

“Jesus H _Christ_ it’s mad out there,” June says, voice one of awed wonderment, “blimey, I didn’t know you could _get_ any bigger Arthur.”

“Oh, our boy’s going to go all the way Junie, don’t doubt that,” Jeffery says, smug. He’s still pleased he got a shout out in the acceptance speech.

They pass the barrier that was keeping the press back, and suddenly there’s hands slamming and knocking on the windows, flashes muted in the tinted glass. Arthur feels strangely like a fish in a very small bowl.

“Here, thought you might need this to celebrate tonight,” June says, and passes Arthur a brown paper bag, “don’t tell Mal,” and she winks.

In the bag is a bottle of premium gin.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Oh right, so I get to enjoy this the night before my 7am flight back to NY?”

June waves a dismissive hand. “Meh, you’re bigger than Bieber right now, Ellen can wait like the rest of us mere mortals.”

Arthur scoffs, but unscrews the top and takes a long slug. It burns his throat, making his eyes water – he doesn’t drink alcohol often, it doesn’t fit with his image - but the thought of Mal’s complete and utter disapproval fuels him to take another.

 

* * *

 

 

At the hotel the cameras are still there and Arthur puts on his glasses despite the fact it’s nearing 1am.

As he gets out the car June calls to him, laughing.

“Hey! You eejit, you forgot this!”

Arthur’s Brit Award trophy is clutched in her outstretched hand.

“Right,” Arthur says, smiling a little deprecatingly, and he takes it. “See you tomorrow guys.”

“Yeah, maybe! If we make it back alive!” June crows, and Jeffery cackles next to her. Arthur had noticed June appeared to have gifted herself a bottle of gin as well.

Saito gets out of the front passenger seat and leads him into the hotel. He’s a comforting presence, but also a reliably quiet one. He congratulates Arthur in his serious, polite way, but then doesn’t say another word as they stand in the elevator, climbing all 12 floors to the penthouse suite.

The corridor is empty, softly lit with muted evening lamps. Arthur’s eardrums are still echoing with the screaming crowd, and the silence is so extreme it almost hurts.

Outside Arthur’s door is a British police officer, dressed in black. Mal was clearly as paranoid as ever then.

“I believe congratulations are in order,” the officer says, voice deep and crisply accented, “I must admit I wasn’t expecting to see you back here quiet this early on in the night.”

Arthur doesn’t look at him, just takes the keycard Saito offers him.

“No one comes in,” he says to the policeman, and then lets himself into the room.

“Arthur-“ Saito sounds concerned.

“Of course sir,” the policeman says, and the door closes behind him before Arthur hears anything else.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is anything but a meet cute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This is the chapter that the attempted suicide warnings heed to - please take care.
> 
> On the other hand, I found this great fun to write, and I'm glad you're enjoying the fic so far!

Eames shifts his weight on his feet in the corridor. Saito is looking at him with an expression of mild concentration, as though he’s trying to work out the best way to dismember him.

Eames coughs, trying not to let his discomfort show.

“Look mate, I know you’re his head of security, but he said no one goes in. I know you heard that as loud and clear as I did. Only fair to respect his privacy.”

Saito doesn’t move. This is part of what’s freaking Eames out. The man is unnaturally still. Eames flicks a glance at his chest, shoulders. Is he even _breathing?_

“But of course,” Saito says silkily, and then doesn’t fucking say anything else.

They fall into an uneasy silence. There’s a clatter from Arthur’s room, but Saito makes no move to knock or call out.

Eames coughs again.

“I see you are used to working alone Mr. Eames,” Saito says, “Would you rather I retire? It has been a long day for all of us, and I’m sure you have Arthur’s nighttime antics under your, ah, _capable_ control.” Saito emphasizes that last bit, just enough to suggest he’s not afraid of questioning exactly how capable Eames is.

Eames does not like this guy one bit.

“By all means,” he offers, graciously. He can be the bigger man.

Saito walks ( _more like slithers_ , Eames thinks, kindly) off down the corridor and Eames is left again to his thoughts.

He can’t help but be on edge, even if Saito wasn’t the creepiest security detail he’d ever met. This whole assignment is crazy, and he’d had next to no time to mentally prepare for it. With Ariadne at her sisters’ for the weekend, he’d been planning on an early night – cracking open a can of beers and watching Spooks reruns. A 9pm call from Yusuf however had stopped that idea in its tracks.

 He’s never done protective work for a celebrity before, but hey, Bill called in sick and Eames wasn’t going to turn down, the admittedly very generous, extra pay. Plus, as far as celebrity details go, to be working for _Arthur_ , America’s Golden boy and global superstar, was pretty fucking cool. He was also, quite frankly, as incredibly attractive in person as he was on screen. Ariadne was going to have absolute kittens when he texted her about this.

Eames knows more than he probably should about Arthur. Ariadne didn’t have many obsessions in life; fruit tea, her Doc Martin collection and shouting at medical inaccuracies during Casualty, to name a few. Arthur, however, made the list in a big way.

Ariadne resented talent show sob stories, but even she had given credit to the recently orphaned teenager who was also a stellar musical talent.  She’d followed his progress through the rounds and shouted at Simon Cowell so loudly when Arthur was sent home Eames had had to go around apologizing to their neighbours. She’d bought all of his covers and acoustic originals that barely made it to mainstream radio, and sang them in the kitchen every morning when she made breakfast. As Arthur had grown up, moving from polo necks and sweaters to suits and slicked back hair, Ariadne had also developed a massive aesthetic crush as well. Even when Arthur deviated from acoustic jazz to pop, she’d generously forgiven him and ended up playing ‘On Point’ and ‘Suit Up’ so many times that Eames knew every single word.

In the past week Arthur had been in the UK she had barely shut up about him, about where he would be touristing that day, if he’d like London, his chances of winning at the Brits. Eames liked Arthur’s music well enough, but living with the fangirl that was his flat-mate meant that knowing the words to Arthur’s songs was far from the extent of his knowledge. He knew that Arthur was born on September 21st, that he favoured high-end suits and quick, witty comebacks. He knew Arthur had already attended more charity galas and donated more money to charities, both privately and publicly, than Kanye and Kim had done in their entire careers. He knew that Arthur was originally from Queens, New York, knew that his favourite colour was grey and that ‘Worth a Shot’ had officially overtaken ‘Uptown Funk’ as the most overplayed song on radio inside a single month.

“Honestly it’s a shame they’re killing it with the overplays,” Ariadne proclaimed one morning, “because he’s the best singer to come out of the US since Elvis,” and she’d helped herself to a bowl of Cheerios with a ladle.

“What happened to your love affair with Bruce Springsteen?” Eames mused, but Ariadne ignored him. She was scrolling through the Tumblr account Eames knew she had dedicated to Arthur.

“He’s so effortlessly attractive too? Like, old school attractive, but without being stuffy, because he’s always posting about charities and liberal stuff. And god, the way he wears a _suit.”_

Eames knew all too well how well Arthur wore a suit. Ariadne had pinned Arthur’s official calendar to the fridge last year; each month was a different suit.

“Just, I feel such a sense of loyalty, you know? He’s had so much shit in his life but he stays humble and down to earth even when he’s working with the biggest names in the business, and he’s literally the least problematic problematic fave I’ve ever had,” she concluded, and poured herself more Cheerios. “Anyway, I’ll be home at 5 today – can we go get sushi?”

Eames smiles down at his feet. Yeah, Ariadne was going to pummel him about not asking for at least a selfie with Arthur. Eames wasn’t the selfie kind of guy though, even if it hadn’t been horrifically unprofessional.

Plus, Arthur didn’t seem to be in any mood for taking photographs when he arrived. In many ways he was quite clearly the handsome young man from the calendar shoots; suit tailored to perfection, hair slicked back as though he’d just stepped out of a speakeasy, his face young and defined. If Eames is being very honest with himself, Arthur is pretty much his type all over – slim, dark, sharp tongue and a sharper smile – but attempting any kind of flirtatious banter, which was what Eames had been half-planning on, professionalism be damned, had gone straight out of the window when Eames saw Arthur’s expression.

He was still wearing the sunglasses that were most likely been donned to protect his eyes from the press cameras so Eames couldn’t see his eyes, but his mouth was a tight line. He had made no recognition of hearing Eames’ congratulations, and the order that no one was to come in was blunt, almost rude.

This was not the Arthur Ariadne raved about, that donated huge sums of money to children’s homes and unbuttoned his shirt provocatively in music videos.

It had been a long day for him, Eames reasons, and anyway, he should have expected to be a little disappointed. _Never meet your heroes_ , one of Ariadne’s favourite pieces of advice she tended to reserve for politicians and authors, swims into his mind.

Eames’ reverie is interrupted by the clacking of heels further along the corridor, and a loud conversation being held in French.

Arthur’s managers round the corner and make a beeline for Eames. Mal, the woman who had requested a police detail, is on the phone, gesticulating wildly; Dominick is apparently texting as he walks.

When they reach the door, Mal shows no sign of ending her conversation, but takes a step back slightly, as though waiting for Eames to open the door.

“He said no one was to go in,” Eames says, apologetically.

The look Mal gives him is enough to make Eames want to cower.

“ _Une seconde_ ,” she tells the person on the phone, and then twists the microphone into her shoulder.

She raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow but doesn’t say anything.

“He won’t have meant _us_ ,” Dom says, brusquely, “just everyone else. We’re his family. You can let us in.”

And Eames does, because there’s nothing else he can do.

Mal shoulders roughly past him – for a slim woman, she has incredibly sharp shoulders – and Dom doesn’t so much as look at him.

“Absolutely, my pleasure, no problem at all,” Eames mutters darkly under his breath as the door closes. Americans _and_ the French. He should have guessed.

Except –

Except then there’s a horrible, strangled scream from the room behind him, and Dom is shouting “Arthur, _no_!” and Eames is barging through the door himself, upholstering his gun, and isn’t thinking about anything but his job which is finding the threat and eliminating it and fucking _hell_ -

Mal is standing in the open patio door, both hands over her mouth, her phone smashed on the marble floor at her feet. Dom is half out the door, an arm holding her back – and that’s when Eames realizes there is no threat.

No threat but Arthur, sitting precariously on the edge of the balcony railing, 12 floors up from the rumbling London traffic below.

“Jesus fuck, _Arthur-_ come down, don’t, whatever you’re thinking _don’t -_ ” Dom is pleading, and Eames puts a hand on his shoulder, quieting him.

Eames can feel his pulse kicking up, blood pounding in his veins, because there’s no training for this, he’s never been trained specifically for this, but he knows what he has to do, what he has to _try_ and do.

He turns to Dom.

“Hey, _hey_ , listen to me, alright? It’s going to be fine, but I need you to stay right there. Take your wife back into the room a little. I’m just going to have a chat with Arthur,” he keeps his voice steady and reassuring. Mal is hyperventilating into her hands; under his palm, Dom is shaking.

Eames steps out of the sliding doors onto the balcony.

The air is bitterly, bitingly cold. A February night was never going to be mild, but up here a frigid wind whips through the rooftops and Eames shudders under his uniform.

Arthur has taken off his jacket. His shirt is untucked, hair finally fallen out of place. He’s leaning forward on his palms, fingers white-knuckling the railing.

“Arthur?” Eames says, as gently as he can. “Arthur what’s going on out here?”

Arthur makes a scoffing sound, which verges into something like a hysterical sob.

“Christ, what does it look like?” His voice is in tatters. He’s crying.

Eames closes his eyes briefly.

He thinks of Arthur the Singer, gently crowning on the radio as he plays a lazy jazz piece, fingers tripping up the keys, his voice a warm familiar cadence as Eames waltzs Ariadne around their postage stamp of a kitchen on a Sunday morning.

Eames thinks of the headlines - _YOUNG STAR PLUNGES TO HIS DEATH IN TRAGIC SUICIDE_ , thinks of Ariadne, how she’d inevitably cry for _weeks_ , of the thousands of fans who would line the streets of New York for his funeral-

And then he thinks of this 21-year-old kid in front of him, feet dangling into nothingness, shivering from the cold.

 “Okay,” Eames takes another slow step forward, “okay, stupid question, you’re right, fair enough. But do you think - do you think you could just look at me for a second Arthur? Please?”

Arthur says nothing. His shoulders are shaking.

“Please?” Eames says, so quietly he isn’t sure Arthur hears him, isn’t sure it’s going to work -

And then Arthur turns, just slightly, and his handsome face Eames knows so well from the the newsstands and billboards and calendars is blotchy from crying, dark eyes glinting with the threat of more tears. He looks devastated, like he’s falling apart at the seams – but he’s also, quite clearly, sober.

Eames has seen enough of drugs and alcohol in his time to be able to tell the difference.

 “Hey,” Eames says, voice a little hoarse, but he manages to recover himself. “I’m Eames. It’s nice to meet you.”

Arthur turns back and Eames takes another step closer.

“You look cold Arthur, can- can I give you my jacket?” Eames has no idea what he’s doing here, literally none, but he’s unzipping his jacket as he speaks.

Arthur shakes his head violently, shoulders hitching in a sob.

“You should go,” he whispers, Eames has to strain to catch the words - “You don’t want to see this.”

It’s matter of fact, the way he’s saying it, and Eames wonders if Arthur was thinking about sitting on this railing during his acceptance speech in front of all those people not 3 hours ago.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Eames admits, giving up on the jacket, “I really don’t – because I sure as hell don’t want you to go through with this,” Eames is so close to him now, he can nearly reach out and touch him.

Arthur laughs into the night, and it’s a hollow sound.

“They said I’d have the world at my feet,” he says, voice breaking again, and he kicks his feet out into the open air. “I guess they were right.”

Arthur isn’t really talking to him, and Eames’ heart rate kicks up another notch. The cold is making his nose numb but his hands are slick with sweat.

“You do Arthur, you do I promise. Something’s gone wrong along the road, but you can fix it okay? Whatever it is you can fix it. You can’t fix jumping off this building.”

Arthur turns and looks at him again. Eames has never seen him without his hair slicked back. Now it’s falling across his forehead in loose messy curls, and he looks ridiculously young.

“No one can fix me,” he says, and then his hands flex on the railing, and Christ he’s pushing himself _off_ -

Eames hears himself yell, he won’t remember what he said in that split second of complete, blinding terror, only that he lunges, grabbing Arthur’s arm as he plummets over the bar, Mal’s scream piercing the air around him, sirens squawling through the streets below-

Arthur’s slim, but he’s all muscle and sinew and that makes him fucking _heavy._ Eames’ hand slips in his.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Arthur, grab my other hand, okay? Grab my hand-“

Eames is pressed full body into the railing – the edge cutting into his ribs as he tries to balance Arthur’s weight and get decent purchase.

Arthur is hanging on by one hand. He meets Eames’ gaze, and then closes his eyes.

Eames can hear nothing but white noise.

“Fucking _hell_ Arthur don’t do this! Hey, look at me, _shit-_ mate, listen to me, _listen_ -“

Arthur opens his eyes again, and he’s still crying. Lights are flashing now in the street 12 floors down, and Eames can hear shouts drifting up. If Arthur falls now, he would die a horrible, painful and incredibly public death.

Eames has no idea what to say, but Arthur looking at him like Eames is the last person in the world (Eames _will_ be the last person Arthur sees in this world if he doesn’t get this right) so Eames just speaks, voice tight from the effort of holding him up-

“You’re a good person, okay? All the fame in the world doesn’t change that. You’re _good_ , Arthur. I know you are. It’s been really hard okay, I get it, no one knows how hard it’s been for you, you haven’t been able to tell anyone, and you’ve felt so alone– but you’ve still got so much to live for Arthur. You’re worth so much more than this.”

Arthur keeps staring at him, tears streaming down his cheeks, and Eames shifts all of Arthur’s weight into his left hand, muscles screaming in protest, and holds open his right palm, arm shaking.

“Just, just grab my hand okay Arthur? It’s going to be alright, I promise. I’m not telling you what to do alright? I’m just saying I’m here and I’m not leaving you.”

Arthur’s face screws up in effort, and for a second Eames think he’s going to twist out of Eames’ hold, that nothing Eames said made any difference-

But then - 

But then Arthur swings his arm up and reaches for Eames’ other hand.

“Okay,” Eames says, relief flooding him overwhelmingly, “okay Arthur, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

Dom is shouting and swearing up a storm but he abruptly appears next to Eames, and together they haul Arthur up and over the barrier.

Arthur falls bodily into Eames, shaking like he’s high, and Eames doesn’t think twice about wrapping his arms around him, about rocking him gently, shhing him, repeating, ‘you’re alright now, you’re alright’ as Arthur sobs into his shoulder.

After a time, Eames isn’t sure who he’s comforting, Arthur or himself.

 

* * *

 

 

The next hour passes in a whirlwind. Mal extracts Arthur from Eames and ushers him into the bedroom of the suite. Eames is sat down in a chair by Dom and told under no circumstances to move one inch. Police officers Eames doesn’t recognise come and go and several paramedics and guy who has got to be a psyche evaluator of some kind are whisked in to see Arthur (how did they find a psychiatrist at 2 in the morning?) and Eames sits there with his head in his hands and tries to sort out his fucking heart rate.

He is offered a foil blanket which he refuses to take. He’s not in shock; he just needs a minute.

Finally, he sees a familiar face.

“Jesus Yusuf it’s good to see you,” he says, and ignores the ‘do not move’ rule to get up to pull his friend into a hug.

Yusuf may be a Chief Inspector now with three stars on his sleeve but he was Eames’ friend first goddamnit.

Yusuf claps him on the back and then holds him at arms’-length, expression concerned.

“It’s been quite a night for you my friend I’ve heard? I’m sorry I rang.”

Eames laughs and it’s a choked sound. “Yeah, and a half,” and he winces and holds a hand to his ribs when they protest about the whole laughing thing.

Yusuf’s brow furrows. “You had that checked out? There’s going to be some impressive bruising.”

Eames waves a hand. “Seriously, it’s nothing.”

Yusuf looks sombre then, and squeezes his hand on Eames’ shoulder in that way he does that always makes Eames feel like Yusuf is trying to emulate fatherly-vibes.

“You did an incredible thing Eames, and you should give yourself a lot of credit.”

Eames shrugs, feeling a little uncomfortable. “Anyone else would have done the same thing. Poor kid, Christ – I’m just glad I was there to-“

“Alcohol really is a dangerous thing,” Yusuf intones suddenly, a little louder than necessary, “and the ice out on the patio wouldn’t have helped. I’m sure the hotel will be implementing safety upgrades to ensure a fall of this kind doesn’t happen again,” and he casts an assessing look around the room.

Eames stares. Yusuf stares back pointedly.

“You’re kidding me,” Eames breathes.

“Mr and Mrs Cobb are very, _very_ grateful for your assistance,” Yusuf pulls out a thin strip of paper and presses it into Eames’ hand, “and would be even more so if you gave a statement corroborating their information on the _accident_ that occurred here tonight.”

Eames feels faintly sick. “They want me to _lie?_ Fucking hell, it’s been less than an hour and they’ve already planned some PR shite that- “

Yusuf shakes his head, mutters, “not here,” and steers Eames out of the hotel room into the corridor. He walks Eames a little way up from the open door and coming and goings. The corridor lights have been fully turned up and the other rooms emptied. Any soft welcoming feel the hotel once had has been lost to the clinical brightness.

Eames shoves Yusuf’s hand off his shoulder angrily.

“Yusuf you can’t seriously expect me to spout some bollocks about him _tripping over_ -“

Yusuf suddenly looks very tired. He scrubs a hand down his face.

“Actually, that’s exactly what you need to spout. Look, this is not protocol. This is not the way we usually do things. But Arthur is entitled to his privacy over the real version of events and Mrs Cobb _insisted._ There were a lot of cameras down by the hotel entrance, and when we turned up most of them realised there was something worth photographing. There are some very discriminate images of Arthur dangling over the railing, and they’ve already been released online. None of him sitting on the balcony, but plenty of him hanging there by one hand. The Cobbs want to delay their flight and give a press conference tomorrow morning clearing up the rumours. They are concerned about the impact that such a story would have on Arthur’s album release and tour, and they want you to help them clarify that it was an accident, that Arthur is fine-“

Eames gapes. “He’s _suicidal_ Yusuf! He’s pretty fucking far from fine! He needs to be seeing someone, not standing in front of more bloody cameras-”

Yusuf looks at him reproachfully, in the way that reminds Eames that technically, he’s three ranks below Yusuf and that his language is verging on subordination.

Eames shuts his mouth, and breaths out harshly through his nose.

“It’s already all been arranged Eames,” Yusuf says, not unkindly, “I’m sorry – truth be told I’m far from happy about it either -  but this is the way it’s going to be. Yes, Arthur fell off a balcony, but no, it wasn’t a suicide attempt.”

Eames shakes his head, disbelieving. This is the most ridiculous thing he has ever heard, and he abruptly _hates_ Mal and Dom Cobb with an intensity he didn’t think possible. Arthur is 21 years old and he needs _help._ Meanwhile his ‘family’ are more concerned with avoiding anything jeopardising album sales.

“And like I said,” Yusuf presses, “they remain very grateful for your assistance and cooperation.” He looks pointedly at the slip of paper in Eames’ hand.

Eames unfolds the paper, smooths it out.

It’s a cheque for £15,000.

It’s the most money Eames has ever seen. His bank account is lucky to push into 4 figures most months.

But it’s dirty money. And Eames stopped dealing in that when he was 16 years old.

“I don’t want their money, and I don’t want to do any fucking press conference,” he says. “Jesus Christ, I’m going to bed,” and he shoves the cheque back into Yusuf’s hand and gets the fuck out of there.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a press conference and Ariadne spams Eames' phone. Arthur comes to a revelation at 40,000 feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay! Am actually in deepest darkest rural Cornwall which is great for writing? But not great for posting.
> 
> Thank you for all the positive feedback so far! You are all so kind :) 
> 
> (Plus - I am considering finding someone to proof-read and offer edit suggestions for this? I'm an appalling speller and I feel bad for subjecting you to these typos. Feel free to message me via my tumblr ((on my AO3 Profile page)) if you're interested! Payment would be in the chance to read everything first, potentially having a say in plot decisions and my eternal gratitude :') I'm sorry I'm too poor to offer actual payment.)

“I’d like to thank all the support and kind words I received from fans over the course of the night,” Arthur is saying, polite and measured, “and I’d especially like to thank the wonderful work of the hotel staff and local Metropolitan police, who went far above and beyond their roles.”

Cameras click incessantly and the sea of reporters in the hotel lobby edge closer, holding out mics and iPhones.

Eames is standing to the right of the platform, and stares straight ahead at the far lobby wall. There’s a huge painting hanging above a water feature, and though it clearly has Pollock inspirations it isn’t quite his style.

A huge television camera is panning across from Arthur, and out of the corner of his eye Eames sees it zoom in on his face.

It’s a Kooning, the painting, Eames decides. Definitely a Kooning.

“Enjoying alcohol is a perfectly acceptable fact of life when consumed sensibly,” Arthur is saying, “and I’m afraid that last night, following the award ceremony, I got a little carried away. Combined with the exhaustion of the past couple of days and the slippery surface out on the balcony, an accident of some sort was inevitable. It was no fault but my own, I’d like to make that clear – I was with Ed Sheeran earlier in the evening but he was nothing but the good influence he always is.”

There’s a titter of laughter from the reporters; Eames clenches his jaw so tightly his teeth squeak.

“Finally, I’d like to thank the person who I really wouldn’t be here without. Constable Eames had just signed up for a night standing in a hotel corridor, but ended up saving my life by pulling me back onto the balcony after I fell.” Arthur looks across at Eames then, and Eames stops trying to burn a hole with his eyes into the opposite wall.

He meets Arthur’s gaze. Arthur looks a little tired, though the make-up is done well enough to hide most of that from the cameras. His expression is impossible to read.

He addresses Eames directly.

“Mr. Eames, I’m not sure if you’re a fan of my music, but I’d be more than happy to offer you free concert tickets to every show on my tour this summer.”

There’s a laugh from the crowd of journalists, and then a flurry of shouted questions which are hard to discern.

But then one guy with stupidly hipster glasses in the front row gets up and shouts above the others.

“Arthur, hey! Arthur! Sorry for being sceptical, but do you expect us to believe all that?”

The crowd goes quiet, and though Arthur’s expression doesn’t change he does go very, very still.

The journalist shrugs. “Look, you say you fell, but the balcony railing is at least 4 feet high, and you were hanging onto the police officer by one hand. I doubt he managed to get from the corridor and out onto the balcony to grab you as you ‘slipped’. He must have been with you _on_ the balcony at the time to make that kind of catch. Which brings into the question that it was a ‘fall’ at all.”

The journalist helpfully provides air-quotes, and there’s a murmur of assent from the other reporters.

He looks at Arthur keenly, and the corner of his mouth twitches in something like smug satisfaction, knowing that everyone in the room is hanging on to his every word.

And then he says –

“Can you categorically deny this wasn’t a suicide attempt?”

The lobby explodes into sound and bulbs flashing, and Eames hears Mal shout, “we don’t have to answer that question!” and watches as Arthur stiffens, hands opening and closing uselessly by his sides-

Eames gets up onto the podium, nudges Arthur off, and points the microphone towards himself.

The feedback shrieks through the speakers, and though everyone winces, the shouting stops at least.

Eames takes a deep breath.

“My name is Constable Eames, I work for the London Metropolitan police force, and last night at 2200 I arrived in this hotel to provide an extra security detail for Arthur. Arthur returned from the award ceremony at approximately 0100 and appeared,” Eames swallows and crosses his fingers behind the podium, “… inebriated and clumsy, though not dangerously intoxicated.”

“Arthur tripped in the corridor and I offered to help him to his room,” Eames fixes the reporter in the front row with a hard glare. “He offered me a drink out of politeness which I declined. I was about to leave when Arthur said he was going out onto the balcony for some fresh air. I questioned this decision and decided to accompany him until Mr and Mrs Cobb returned. It was at this point that Arthur lost his balance and slipped on the balcony over the railing. I was able to prevent him from falling until Mr Cobb arrived and assisted me in pulling him back over the railing.”

The reporters have gone very quiet, recorders held aloft. The cameras are all still rolling.

Eames looks directly into the largest right in front of him. A red light is winking next to the lens, the BBC logo emblazoned on the operator’s shirt.

This was live television. Eames feels slightly sick.

“What took place last night was an accident that was thankfully prevented from becoming a tragedy. That is all I have to say,” and Eames steps down from the podium.

The cameras explode again and more questions are shouted but Dom is up at the microphone and saying, “that’s all any of us have to say at this point – thank you!”

Eames escapes into a small side-room, his head ringing. God, he just wants this whole thing to be over. He just lied, on _national television_. And Mal was not letting him walk away without a stupidly large cheque to keep him quiet (they’d offered him up £20,000 only that morning after hearing he’d refused the money from Yusuf and _fuck_ Eames has his pride but he also has a fair bit of debt).

He hears someone come in behind him, and it takes him a second to realise it’s Arthur.

Just Arthur.

This Arthur is a million miles from the kid Eames heaved over a railing the night before. This Arthur has been put back together like Humpty Dumpty – sharp pinstripe suit, gleaming Oxfords, hair neatly slicked away from his face.

Arthur clears his throat a little.

“Thanks for that.”

Eames looks up. Arthur is making assured eye contact, but Eames has always been good at tells and away from the cameras Arthur looks nervous. The suit does such a good job of presenting a mature, confident man, but in this dingy backroom, Arthur’s chewing the inside of his cheek and twisting his hands together like he’s trying to pull his own skin off.

“For the lying, or for saving your life?” Eames says, not a little bitter.

Arthur flinches. “Hey, it wasn’t a total lie, I’d definitely had too much to drink-“

Eames stares him down. “I was there, alright? I’ve never seen a less drunk person in my life.”

Arthur looks away and smooths his hair back.

“Okay, well then thanks for pulling me up, and for- for what you said when you did so,” he grimaces a little.

Eames doesn’t quite know what to say. He said a lot on the balcony – made an ill-advised attempt to offer Arthur his coat and wound up promising Arthur he wasn’t going to leave him. Eames isn’t sure which part Arthur is referring to.

But then, almost as if he’s watching the strings of a marionette suddenly being pulled taught his spine straightens as he stands up a little taller and his expression hardens. In that one moment, it’s like he’s a different person – and when he speaks, he speaks confidently, without a shadow of doubt.

“I’ve made sure Mal pays you whatever you want in order to stick to what’s been said today. I know you’ve been reluctant to take it but you should, you won’t find anyone out there willing to pay higher. If you do, we can match it. If you go to the tabloids anyway,” Arthur laughs, humourlessly, “well, let’s just say Saito is good at what he does. If you say anything, it would ruin me, but we would make sure you fell as well. Anything you sell to the papers will be redundant. My managers have the means to ensure you’d lose your job, your house, and your friends.”

Arthur smiles, and it’s cold verging on cruel. Eames doesn’t even recognise him.

“I don’t like to have to spell it out, but you need to appreciate what’s at stake here – if you consider selling a story. That’s just the way it’s going to be.”

It’s the most ridiculous thing Eames has ever heard, but Arthur is being deadly serious.

Eames shakes his head in disbelief, “you’re a right piece of work, you know that Arthur?”

“I do know. It’s how I’ve ended up earning more in a day than you’ll earn all year. No offense.”

Eames actually laughs despite himself, and Arthur raises an eyebrow at him.

“I saved your life mate,” Eames says, angry now, “you could’ve stopped at the thanks. I don’t need your bloody money or your _threats_ , Jesus. I did nothing other than my job in pulling you up, and I said what I had to to try and stop you letting go and dropping 12 floors, though if I’m honest I kind of wish now I could take some of it back.”

He ducks in a mock bow.

“No offense,” he adds.

Except when Eames glances up, Arthur looks like he has been slapped. His face is drained of all colour, and the cruelly practical businessman is back to the unsure kid so fast Eames feels like he’s getting whiplash.

Eames sighs, scrubs a hand down his face. This is exhausting.

“Look, that was harsh, I-“

“No. No I definitely deserved it,” Arthur says, and Eames can’t be sure if his voice cracks a little, because the doors to the room open and the Cobbs sweep in like a tornado of organisational chaos and Arthur is bundled up in a peacoat and steered outside.

Mal puts an envelope into Eames’ hand and eyes him over briefly.

“With thanks,” she says, dismissively, “my PA will be in touch to confirm the final sum is acceptable. I assume it will be.”

And then they’re gone.

And Eames is left, standing alone in a half-lit room with a cheque for £25,000.

 

* * *

 

Eames has 18 voicemails and 47 unread text messages when he digs his phone out from the bottom of the rucksack he’d slung over his shoulder when he’d left the house that morning.

“Shit,” he says.

Eames ignores Yusuf and his colleagues and scrolls down to the most important person in his inbox.

Ari [7:45]: _!!!!!!!!!!!_

Ari [7:45]: _EAMES_

Ari [7:45]: _EAMES WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON_

Ari [7:45]: _FUCKING PICK UP YOUR PHONE??_

Ari [7:45]: _I GO AWAY TO MY SISTERS FOR ONE WEEKEND AND YOU ARE ON EVERY SINGLE NEWS CHANNEL THERE IS AND EVERYONE IS RINGING ME ASKING IF YOU SAVED ARTHUR’S LIFE AND APPARENTLY THE ANSWER IS YES???_

Ari [7:46]: _you pulled him over a railing 12 FLOORS UP JESUS CHRIST EAMES_

Ari [7:46]: _i feel I should get some credit for making you get that gym membership_

Ari [7:46]: _also I’m relieved as fuck your okay too jesus if youd both fallen off I would have fucking joined you i s2g_

Ari [7:52]: _i cant believe you dont have your phone on_

Ari [7:52]: _i cant believe you actually fcuking MET HIM_

Ari [7:52]: _ARTHUR_

Ari [7:53]: _and i am REALLY finding it hard to adjust to the fact that you then HELD ONTO HIS HAND AND STOPPED HIM FALLING TO HIS DEATH_

Ari [7:54]: _YOU ARE AN ACTUAL NATIONAL HERO EAMES_

Ari [7:54]: _AND YOU STILL ARE NOT ANSWERING YOUR PHONE YOU DICK_

Ari [10:32]: _okay so i may well be hallucinating this whole thing but I am PRETTY DAMN SURE i just heard you on the radio???_

Ari [10:32]: _WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON WITH YOUR LIFE_

Ari [10:34]: _Eames okay whole disaster and dramatic-near-tragedy aside pls tell me you at least got his autograph PLEASE TELL ME YOU ARE A DECENT FRIEND_

Ari [10:37]: _everything aside though jfc I am so proud of you i am coming home now screw the wedding planning and we’re going to go out for thai and I’m paying and also paying all the bills for the rest of the month and please don’t leave me for your life of fame and celebrity eames its important to remember your roots_

Ari [11:12]: _I still cant believe you met him oh my g od_

For the first time since Arthur walked up to that hotel room, Eames feels a little lighter, and laughs despite himself. He can’t imagine what this must have been like from Ariadne’s perspective, but her reaction is so predictable, the excessive use of capslocks so familiar, he feels a bit more grounded. He fires off a quick reply.

Eames [11:34]: _darling I’m so sorry for the radio silence it’s been mad as you can imagine. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. And I’m afraid I didn’t get his autograph, bit busy saving his life_

Eames throws in an angel emoji for good measure, and then as he’s now £25,000 richer than he was 24 hours ago, he treats himself and hails a cab instead of taking the bus home.

The cab driver does a double take. “Hang on, aren’t you that guy who saved the singer?”

In retrospect, avoiding the bus was a good idea.

In 2 weeks time, Eames tells himself, everyone will have forgotten all about this. Eames will disappear back into obscurity, and Arthur will release his album and everyone will move on. Eames would have a moment of fame story to tell to guys at the pub, and Arthur would have the one blip on his record wiped away.

Everyone wins.

 

* * *

 

Arthur feels numb.

This is what he’s identified the feeling as, the one that’s been quietly accompanying him for some time now. When he’s on stage, when he’s greeting fans, doing interviews, deciding on album artwork, sitting through make up for photoshoots, discussing tour dates with Mal, sharing a drink with Dom, getting into the shower, getting out of bed in the morning-

He feels like he’s watching a live feed of his own life from somewhere else, directing his body to go through the motions, smile here, nod there.

The first time he hadn’t felt numb in a long time was when he’d finally slipped off that railing. Then the terrible reality of what he was doing had hit like a fucking freight train, and the whole world was reduced to the mind-altering adrenalin that lit Arthur up like the 4th July and the man holding him in this world with one hand, the man who was earnest and kind and _real_.

 He’d said _you’re worth so much more than this_.

And for a second, Arthur had believed it.

But then he was in front of a microphone again, and the camera flashes that were a constant headache in his peripheral filled his vision and he was speaking the words Dom had made him recite while he shaved that morning, and he was back to feeling numb again.

He’s sitting in the private jet that’s chartered to fly from Heathrow direct to New York. Dom is fussing about the meal options with the flight attendants, insisting that, despite Arthur’s wishes, he actually didn’t want _just_ the salad, and could they arrange for a beef to be delivered instead? Mal is opposite him on her phone.

Arthur looks out the window, watches a lumbering Boeing taxi slowly along the runway. It doesn’t seem to be gaining speed to take off, but it’s too slow to have just landed. Maybe the pilot was just killing time.

Arthur peels a piece of loose skin away from the side of his nail. It’s more connected to the tissue than he’d thought, and starts to bleed.

 _Where am I going wrong Mom,_ he thinks, just a little desperate, _please, I don’t know where I’m messing up._

It’s been a long time – but it’s always his mother he asks. His Dad was just as loving, just as proud, but he was less of a presence. It was the 90s, the beginnings of the office following hollow-eyed men home on the late bus, the start of being contactable 24/7 through a mobile the size of Arthur’s forearm. Arthur can’t remember his father being anything other than tired; teaching Arthur his chromatic scales in-between yawns, singing to his mother and smiling with bloodshot eyes.

Arthur’s mother on the other hand, was a constant. She sang while she cooked every single day, her voice filling in the gaps of teenage angst in Arthur’s life, and when he started to sing, started to play as well, and friends began to question whether Arthur should really bother with the mechanical engineering degree when he took to music so well, like he’d been born to do it, when he’d started to practice so often his voice cracked and his wrists ached - she was the one who came up to his room and sat on the edge of his bed, stroking his hair in the twilight.

“ _You don’t need to be a star Arthur, you don’t need to earn our affection or pride. We’re already more than proud of you. Just follow your heart, my love. Whatever you do, wherever you go – we’ll be cheering you from the side-lines, you know that.”_

The nameless, selfless police officer had looked at him like his mother had way back then when he’d said:

_‘_ _You’re a good person, okay? All the fame in the world doesn’t change that. You’re good, Arthur.’_

Arthur hadn’t thought about her in a long time until that moment.

“Arthur,” Mal says, gently, but with the impatience of someone who has now repeated themselves several times.

Arthur looks up, blinking back the threat of tears he hadn’t even noticed. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

Her dark eyes are assessing. She puts aside her phone, and leans forward on the table.

“I know what you told the doctors, but what happened on the balcony-“

“Mal please -”

“Was that your way of making a cry for help? I do not like to admit the press are right but you have not been yourself recently, it is true.”

Mal is too astute for her own fucking good.

Arthur swallows, hard. “Mal, I was drunk and it was a stupid mistake.”

“Do not be dense Arthur,” she says, rolling her eyes, “we were there, we know you didn’t fall-“

“It wasn’t a fucking cry for help! Okay?” Arthur says, louder than he intended.

Mal’s eyes narrow, ringed fingers clacking rhythmically on the table between them. “Good. Because you may have noticed that we are sitting on a private jet at this precise moment Arthur. You have very little to cry about.”

“I know, I _know_ , I was just exhausted and kinda drunk and I wanted some fresh air and felt upset for some reason and it was a dumb, _stupid_ mistake-“

“You can’t afford to be stupid Arthur!” Mal cries suddenly, throwing her hands into the air, “there is so much at stake! Especially at this point, we cannot allow _anything_ to get in the way of the next few weeks and as soon as the album is released it-“

“I think I’m gay,” Arthur says, abruptly. He doesn’t know what makes him say it – it’s the truth after all, there’s no ‘think’ about it’ – only that he can’t bear to hear another conversation about the album.

Mal barely even flinches. “ _And?_ ”

Arthur stares. “I’m not out.”

Mal rolls her eyes like he’s a complete idiot. “No, not yet, but this hardly news to _us_ Arthur. We have known since we first met you.”

She laughs, though Arthur’s failing to see anything about this situation that’s funny. “Please tell me this isn’t what you were sitting up on that balcony for?” She sounds incredulous.

It’s not, not by a long shot, not by a county mile, Arthur had been out to his parents- had been planning on telling his friends before it all happened- and it had never been the slightest bit of issue, but it’s the easy way out, so Arthur nods.

Mal laughs again, high and bright like silver bells.

“Well why didn’t you just _say,_ you silly boy?”

Arthur makes an attempt at a shrug, entirely shocked. He did not anticipate this as the reaction to a secret he thought he’d been harbouring about himself for years.

“Being gay is something that we can deal with without problem,” Mal tells him, matter of fact, “Publicly coming out before the album is of course out of the question, but the positive way public feeling is going, I am certain we could incorporate an opportunity for you to announce your sexuality over the next few years. I will discuss it with the PR team.”

 _Next few years_. The phrase sticks in Arthur’s mind, looping.

Except Mal has deemed the conversation over. Her phone is ringing, and she’s getting to her feet.

“I do wish you had mentioned this earlier Arthur – Dom or I don’t mind at all. It was not worth getting so upset about,” and she pats his shoulder vaguely and answers the phone. “Yes? Yes but of course! We are very much looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

She wanders down the plane aisle, and Arthur is left feeling like the one card he’d been so carefully clutching to his chest had been transparent the entire time.

Later, when the plane is cruising at 40,000 feet and Dom and Mal are bickering away about whether or not Arthur needed to be in person for the first briefing session of his planned autobiography – Arthur decides something.

_We’ll be cheering you from the side-lines._

Arthur has never been a religious person, but if there was any chance his parents were still present somehow, on some plane, he doesn’t doubt for a second that they would still be cheering him on.

To even consider leaving this world before his time, as they’d been forced to leave it, was a disservice to their memory.

And though he still feels numb, though there’s a weight in his gut he can’t shift, though he’s never been less excited about the fact that there’s a Brit Award trophy sitting opposite him on the cabinet, he is certain of one thing.

He knows he’s not going to try and end his life again.

He owes it to them – to his parents.

He won’t let himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames is trending on Twitter and Arthur plays Candy Crush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for the positive comments/thoughts on this! Glad you're enjoying where things are going :)
> 
> I've had a few very kind offers in response to my request for proof-reading and I'll be replying to those imminently! (Sorry for the delay - deepest, darkest Cornwall 3G was just NOT going to open Tumblr. At all.)
> 
> Sidenote: I hate the Daily Mail. So much. I know it's some people's guilty pleasure but honestly I'm happy to stick with Maltesers. Less capitalizing on body and slut-shaming and infinitely more satisfying. Plus, I mentioned this in a comment reply to someone, but this whole thing with Taylor Swift and Kanye? Slightly ridiculous but honestly making me think so much about the darkside of fame. On the day when shit went down I just kept thinking "I wonder how many texts Taylor Swift has in her inbox right now, I wonder how many calls her PR team are fielding." Weird I know, but really interesting to think about for this fic. Anyway.
> 
> ALSO: feel like this might be longer than 8 chapters? Either way I'm super interested to see where you think it is/should be going in terms of the plot direction? I have it mostly figured out I'm just very nosey.

The hug Ariadne tackles Eames with the moment he steps through the door is enough to completely knock the breath out of him.

Eames stands there, wheezing, and petting Ariadne’s head fondly as she squeals incomprehensible things into his chest. Stevie ambles over and typically tries to join in by getting between their legs, fussing for attention.

“I can’t believe you,” Ariadne says, voice muffled, “I can’t _fucking_ _believe you._ ”

“Well you better believe it,” Eames tries easing back a little, wincing. His ribs are still sore from the railing.

“Okay, not to sound super shallow, but was he just as good-looking as he is in photos? On the calendar?”

Eames thinks about it, honestly.

Arthur had looked tired in the corridor, and frankly terrible on the balcony – Eames didn’t believe in attractive criers, misery was not a good look on anyone - but, all that aside, Eames wasn’t _blind_.

“Ari, he was infinitely better.”

Ariadne makes a noise like she’s dying into Eames’ shirt.

Then she pulls back, and looks at him in a way that always makes Eames marvel at the fact that someone of 5-foot-nothing has such capacity for ferocity.

“I’m obviously jealous and as pumped as hell that you met him Eames, but that’s not what this,” she gestures with her chin to the fact her arms are still wrapped limpet-tight around his waist, “is all about. This is about you being an absolutely incredible human being and saving his life and how I’m really fucking thrilled that everyone else is finally seeing what a _good person_ you are too.”

_‘You’re a good person okay? All the fame in the world doesn’t change that. You’re good, Arthur. I know you are.’_

Eames’ chest tightens uncomfortably. Ariadne doesn’t know about that part of the evening. No one does.

“And,” Ariadne continues, “ _and_ , this is about me being so so _so_ happy and relieved that you’re alright as well and generally just very pleased that I get to have you as a flatmate when you’re not busy being an actual reincarnation of frigging Superman. That’s what this is about.”

“Ari,” Eames says, touched. “That is quite possibly the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Ariadne sniffs, and finally let’s go. “Yeah well, don’t get used to it. The newspapers just arrived and I got all emotional all over again.”

Ariadne orders two daily papers. She doesn’t have the time to read them, neither of them do, but it just so happens that Ariadne is a big fan of paper mâché so that’s inevitably what they get used for.

They do tend to skim the headlines together though. And for that reason Ariadne orders the _Daily Mail_ and _The Guardian_ , so she can ‘get a perspective for what both halves of the country are worrying about.’

The Mail’s headline is in approximately size 72 font.

_BRITISH BOBBY SAVES ARTHUR FROM PLUNGING TO HIS DEATH_

“Not a single pun? I am disappointed,” Eames says.

The title is accompanied with a headshot of Arthur looking incredibly handsome from the Brit awards and a then a grainy, overly zoomed-in photo of him hanging over the balcony railing. Eames is barely more than a dark blob silhouetted in the lights from the hotel room the quality is so bad.

The Guardian front page is dedicated to some dumb thing George Osborne has said, but Ariadne flicks to page 4, and there is the balcony photo again.

_Arthur saved from 120 foot drop by local policeman_

The subheading reads: _Global superstar and singer-songwriter Arthur started the night accepting a Brit award and ended it hanging from a railing 12 floors up, saved only by the quick-thinking actions of the London police officer, Constable Eames._

“It’s crazy Eames,” Ari breathes, “absolutely crazy. Everyone knows who are? And what a fucking incredible thing to be famous for.”

Stevie nudges Eames’ hand, looking expectant. In all the chaos of Eames getting less than 3 hours sleep before having to be back at the hotel for the press conference that morning, Eames had completely forgotten to give him breakfast.

Ariadne scrambles them eggs for an early lunch and Eames feeds Stevie, and asks Ariadne about her sisters plans for the wedding and it all feels wonderfully normal.

Ariadne must sense that Eames is still a little shell-shocked about the whole thing, because she doesn’t press for details. Eames knows it’s only a matter of time, but for now he’s grateful.

They eat their brunch on the kitchen island with Stevie huffing around at their feet, and Ariadne gets her phone out.

Her eyes widen at the screen, and she puts it back in her pocket.

Eames raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Genuinely never had that many voicemail messages in my life. All the girls from work are hyped beyond belief.”

“Mine’s the same to be honest,” Eames admits. “I only ended up reading your texts, the rest I couldn’t quite face. Should probably ring Yusuf later though; the station is being inundated apparently. I’m going to have to give another statement I suspect.”

“The landline was literally ringing constantly when I got in. It was driving Stevie mad so I took it off the hook, but I reckon 90% of them were reporters and papers wanting to talk to you.”

Eames groans. “Yeah, well good luck to them with that.”

Eames wouldn’t have talked to the press regardless of the Cobb’s cheque. Lying sucked yes, but Eames wasn’t going to be the one to tell the world about Arthur’s mental state. That wasn’t his place; regardless what Arthur thought of him, he kept his goddamned word.

Eames’ good intentions however wasn’t going to stop everyone else from trying their level best to find out the full story, especially after the ignition of the reporter’s question that morning. Maybe approximating 2 weeks for everything to die down was optimistic at best.

“In advance poppet,” he says suddenly, “I’m sorry about the next few days. I know we both get that anything Arthur-related is big news, but I have a feeling it’s going to be quite a lot worse than we can imagine. They’re going to hunt me down, and, by extension, you.”

Ariadne gives him a look like he’s just revealed to her the revelatory truth that the sky is blue.

“Do _not_ apologise to me for being a hero, you complete idiot. I _know_ all that, and I don’t care. Yeah it’s going to be mad, but it will be old news eventually. For now, why not enjoy your 15 minutes?”

Eames is obviously not looking enthusiastic enough at this prospect, so Ariadne sighs melodramatically, and pulls over her laptop.

“Look Eames, you’re trending on Facebook and Twitter for fuck’s sake. I know the reporters are going to be annoying, but you can’t say that’s not cool as hell.”

She logs into Twitter and there, on the currently trending top list, is the hashtag ‘CatchMeTooEames’.

Eames feels his mouth literally drop open. “You are having a _laugh._ ”

“No I’m not,” Ariadne says, in a sing song voice. The hashtag has been used 18,000 times.

She clicks on it.

@gigi_23 _: okay so probs not appropriate and I’m super pleased arthur’s ok – but the police officer anyone?? Holyyyy shiiiiiit I now understand what they say about men in uniform #CatchMeTooEames_

@arthur_4eva: _think I could just about manage to fall off a building if I had a guarantee of being rescued by Constable Eames <3_ _#CatchMeTooEames_

@Willjones: _None of my business but 10/10 approve of the police officer for Arthur’s boyfriend material if he swings that way. Protective and a dream to look at? #CatchMeTooEames_

@AmeliaRay: _yknow someone is incredibly attractive when they’re actually distracting from a stage that ARTHUR is standing on #heroANDhandsome #CatchMeTooEames_

@reema94: _I can’t believe this hashtag is actually trending. Arthur nearly died guys?? Lil bit insensitive #CatchMeTooEames_

@curiouscabbage: ………… _I ship it #CatchMeTooEames_

@gena_mcguire: _I DON’T HAVE TIME TO FANGIRL OVER SOMEONE ELSE  #TeamEames #CatchMeTooEames_

@ArthurUpdates: _Pleased to report that Arthur seemed to be in good spirits this morning at the press conference. Now can we talk about the male-model of a police officer who saved him?? #drool #CatchMeTooEames_

@ tswftie89: _the uniform. The ACCENT #killmenow #CatchMeTooEames_

@arthuraddict3: _did anyone else notice/appreciate Eames’ incredible ass when he got of the podium? no? that was just me? Okay then nvm #CatchMeTooEames_

@leonaaa: _never been a fan of the whole ‘damsel in distress’ thing but the thought of Officer Eames saving me? *swoons* #UltimatePrinceCharming #CatchMeTooEames_

Eames can’t help but laugh.

“Well, this is a reaction I didn’t see coming.”

Ariadne swats him. “Don’t be silly, you know full well you’re ridiculously attractive. Can you hardly blame the female, and indeed male, population of this planet holding you in high regard as the ideal hero?”

“’High regard’? Is that what they’re calling blatant objectification these days?”

“Hey if ‘high regard’ gets you toy-boy dates with the wealthy then I’m happy to roll with that,” Ariadne says.

Eames holds a hand to his chest in mock horror. “Pimping me out? Ariadne, I’m appalled.”

“Gotta pay the bills somehow hero-boy.”

“Ah,” Eames says, thinking about Mal’s envelope in his pocket and how now is as good a time as any, “well on the subject of bills actually.”

Ariadne doesn’t hit the ceiling, but it’s a near thing.

“You are fucking _kidding_ me! Eames! You could move out if you wanted to! Get your own place! Fuck, move to Australia and live on a fucking _beach!”_

“Ariadne, darling, be realistic. This is London. I can’t afford to move anywhere, even with £25,000. Am I really going to be leaving my perfectly serviceable apartment and perfectly charming flatmate and the job I’ve been working for for 5 years? I don’t think so.”

“Still!” Ariadne seems to be living and breathing exclamation marks. “ _Christ_ that’s a lot of money Eames!”

“It is,” Eames admits, a little embarrassed, “but it’s also not enough to drastically change our living situation. So aside from paying off some people and making bills and food a little less stressful, I thought it might be nice to book a holiday together.”

He smiles at her knowingly, “I know how much you want to go to New York.”

This time, Ariadne really does hit the ceiling. Or rather, the light fitting, when she stands on her bar stool and hits it by accident in her flailing.

10 minutes later Eames has finished carefully extracting glass from her hand, and is now in the process of cleaning and wrapping it.

“You, my poppet, are a plonker,” he tells her.

Ariadne winces at the antiseptic. “Hey, you just causally mention we might actually go on my all-time dream vacation - how did you expect me to react?”

“By not destroying our home furnishings?”

Ariadne rolls her eyes. “Besides the point. Anyway. Has Arthur actually given you free concert tickets? Got any more cheques for £50,000 this time? Anything else you’re not telling me?”

She’s teasing, but Eames feels the guilt at keeping quiet about what actually happened on the balcony tug in his chest.

If he’s being completely honest, ever since Ariadne said he was a ‘good person’, he’s been thinking about Arthur.

He trusts Ariadne with his life. And there’s no way he’s going to be able to keep something this big on his conscience alone.

“Yes, actually,” he says, tucking in the last bit of bandage, and proceeds to tell Ariadne the whole story.

Ariadne has her hand over her mouth for most of it, and when Eames gets to the part when Arthur had closed his eyes and Eames had thought he was going to let go, she makes a sound like a hoarse sob.

Stevie potters over and puts his head comfortingly on her knee, nudging at her other hand until she’s patting him. He gives Eames a slightly accusatory glare.

It’s a harder story to tell than Eames anticipated, and he wonders if it’s because the adrenalin from the whole thing is starting to wear off. He’s slept less than 3 hours in the last 24, and his whole body is aching with exhaustion, ribs finally protesting in earnest. Recounting how much Arthur had been crying, how cold he’d looked in just a dress shirt – they’re not memories Eames is particularly fond of thinking about.

He explains how the cheque was offered to him almost as soon as Arthur was back over the railing. Explains how the figure was upped when he arrived back at the hotel for the press conference in the morning. He tells Ariadne about Arthur’s statement, how scripted it felt, and then about the front-row reporter who refused to believe it.

He tells her how he stepped up onto the podium and lied, on live national television.

And then he tells her about the part he’s least proud of, though he’s tempted to skip it. About meeting Arthur in the side room - how Arthur switched from anxious and genuinely grateful to cruelly threatening and elitist in the space of 5 minutes, and how Eames couldn’t help but respond.

“He was being a complete prick, there’s no denying it, but I told him I wished I could take back what I’d said - what I’d said to him on the balcony. And god Ari, you should have seen his _face_ ,” Eames groans.

Ariadne still has a hand over her mouth, her dark eyes a picture of abject horror. Stevie, who has become increasingly upset at Ariadne’s distress, gives him a deeply unimpressed look.

Eames puts his head in his hands.

“And yes, it was all stuff in the heat of the moment because I don’t know him do I? How can I really know he’s a decent person? But it was obviously the right thing to say to keep him from letting go, and I know enough about him through you to tell he’s a good guy, and then I threw it back in his face and all the cheques and fangirls on Twitter aren’t going to make up for the fact that what I said to him was _shit.”_

The more Eames thinks about it, the worse it gets. God, how could he _do_ something like that?

Ariadne seems to finally snap out of her tableau of shocked horror. She slips off her stool and wraps her arms around his shoulders.

“Hey. Hey, you saved his life Eames.”

“He’s fucked up Ari,” Eames says, voice strangled, “he’s quite obviously _seriously_ fucked up. And from the way his managers seem to be denying the reality of the situation, I’m not sure if he’s going to get any help either. What if he decides to try again? Because of what I said? Because I took back the one thing that made him question the decision in the first place?”

Ariadne’s arms tighten uncomfortably.

“Shut up, okay? Shut up. People who have decided they don’t want to be alive anymore decide that themselves. Little things other people say to them aren’t going to tip them over either way. It’s his decision, okay?”

She sounds stuffed up, like she’s about to cry again, and Eames sits up and returns the hug.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m sorry poppet, I know you love him. This can’t have been easy to hear.”

“Yeah but I love you more,” Ariadne mumbles. “And you are like, actually my friend. Not my celebrity idol.”

Stevie woofs gently, and drops his head onto Eames’ lap. It’s a forgiving gesture.

“The bottom line is, everyone is painting me as a hero, but it’s not true. I hate the fact I had to lie, and I hate the fact I said what I said, even if he was being a dick. And I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to get over that,” Eames tells her, because that’s it really.

“Then,” Ariadne says, “then what you’re actually saying is that the bottom line is you need to tell him you’re sorry, and ask him to tell everyone the truth.”

Eames huffs a laugh. “Sure. Because that’ll be a stroll in the park.”

Ariadne pulls back from the hug. Her eyes are still shining but she’s got that determined look on her face that Eames is so very fond of.

“Probably not, but we’ll do it, alright? We will.”

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur has about an hour before Saito comes and picks him up. For once, he’s arranged to meet Mal and Dom there, and by arranged, that meant Arthur has to have a very strongly worded conversation as to why hair, make-up and the pre-interview brief could be done just as well at the Rockefeller centre as it could be at home, and that, actually, he just wants to spend some time alone before he has to go and smile on the _Today Show._

One hour of peace.

Arthur is therefore currently curled up on his futon that looks out over the New York skyline and playing Candy Crush on his phone. Dom tells him on a daily basis that Candy Crush went out of fashion in 2010, Christ Arthur, get a new hobby, but Arthur is now on level 1,732 so, quite honestly, fuck you Dom.

The apartment is silent, apart from the gentle hum of the fridge, the occasional bubbles from Arthur’s huge fish tank.

 He likes this apartment. He remembers meeting the estate agent Mal had set up for him the week after ‘Suit Up’ went to number one; how she’d had 4 properties lined up with prices that made Arthur’s eyes water because he still hadn’t adjusted to the fact that he could actually _afford_ this level of rent now.

“This one is the smallest of the selection,” the estate agent said, somewhat apologetically, as they’d walked in, “but I think you’ll agree that it makes up for it with one hell of a view.” And Arthur had taken one look at the sweeping open floor plan, the sleek white walls and kitchen counters, the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows over-looking New York, gleaming in the best of the October sunrise, and had signed the papers there and then.

Arthur has a modest house just up the coast from San Francisco, and a go-to rented apartment in LA, but New York had always been home.

Arthur’s phone makes a strange blip noise, and he momentarily abandons Candy Crush.

It’s an alert that a news item he’s tracking has just been mentioned in an article. He’s never tracked anything before; he didn’t recognise the sound.

The article is on the Daily Mail, and Arthur makes a noise of disgust on principle, and mentally prepares himself.

 

_ARTHUR’S LONDON POLICEMAN: AN UNLIKELY NEW HEARTTHROB?_

_It’s been quite a week for the British copper!_

_Eames (first name unknown) was spotted enjoying some uncharacteristically warm spring weather on a shirtless jog around Regents Park this morning, accompanied by an unknown female companion, presumed girlfriend, and his dog._

_Looking relaxed and in great shape, the jog clearly didn’t go quite to plan as Eames was soon recognised and descended upon by his rapidly growing fanclub. Eames and his slim, dark-haired companion were quick to hail a taxi and escape the crowds._

_Eames shot to unlikely fame last Saturday when he saved 21-year-old superstar Arthur from falling to his death from a penthouse balcony at the Lanesborough hotel in London._

_Arthur has since stated the fall was an accident contributed to by drinking at the Brit Awards earlier in the evening, though many still speculate whether this is the full truth of the story._

_However, it wasn’t until the press conference the following day that Eames started to become a celebrity in his own right._

_Heroic actions and rougish good looks are clearly an effective combination, as the 25 year old trended on Twitter the following day with 33,000 people using the hashtag #CatchMeTooEames to discuss the young officer._

_Since then, fan pages and Twitter accounts have been established in his name, and there’s no doubt he’s currently the most famous policeman in the capital. Very little is known about the elusive Eames however, who has so far refused to give a statement. Who is his mysterious female companion? Girlfriend or gal pal? And will Eames be revealing anything about the night of Arthur’s ‘fall’? Was it really an accident, or is the young star more troubled than we thought?_

 

The article is accompanied by 23 photos.

 Most of them feature Eames jogging, shirtless. One caption reads: ‘ _You have the right to remain silent!’ – Many fans have commented on Eames’ good looks, and he certainly has the body to match! Police officer training clearly has its benefits._

Arthur swallows and tries not to get distracted by the fact that Eames really _does_ look very good shirtless.

The woman jogging with him is tiny; dark hair pulled back in a messy pony tail, face bright pink with exertion. She’s very pretty, Arthur notes vaguely. At the start of the photo-set they both are clearly oblivious to the cameras. In one, Eames has clearly said something to make the woman laugh, and he’s watching her with unguarded affection.

The collection captures the exact moment the two of them see the paparazzi.

Arthur feels a pang of recognition. He’s seen the exact same expression on his own face countless times in press releases.

The rest of the photos are slightly painful to witness. The seal-faced dog looking anxious and hiding behind the woman’s legs; Eames tugging his t-shirt back on hurriedly. The shirt obviously been worn and washed over many years, the fleur-de-lis-esque logo and writing so faded it’s almost eligible. It’s also just little too small, apparent in the way that the fabric stretches taut across Eames’ broad shoulders.

Then the photos document Eames leading the dog and his friend off the path, through the trees and onto the main road.

The last photo is taken through the window of a taxi. Eames has his arm up against the camera flashes; his expression is tense, unhappy, jaw in a hard line.

Arthur feels uneasy.

Eames saved his life; but that, as he’d made very clear after the press conference, had just been Eames doing his job. 

_‘I said what I had to to try and stop you letting go and dropping 12 floors’_

Arthur cringes slightly, remembering how he’d felt his stomach drop out in a way that had nothing to do with the memory of being suspended 12 floors up.

But still. Arthur wasn’t completely self-absorbed – Eames’ reaction had been pretty justified given what Arthur had just threatened him with.

It’s not like Eames _wanted_ any of this. He didn’t even want their money, let alone the press that hounded Arthur like dogs wherever he went.

Arthur finds himself clicking through to the attached links on the article, and ends up on the YouTube clip of the hotel press conference the day after the ‘Balcony Incident’, as Mal had taken to calling it.

Arthur scrubs through the first couple of minutes, grimacing at his false smile. God, he really needs to work on that.

He stops when he sees Eames start to move from the right hand side of the screen, and takes it back a little. Arthur doesn’t want to remember this moment, but he feels like it’s one that’s going to be burned into his memory either way.

He hits play the second after the front-row reporter had asked the question that Arthur could never have predicted, the question he couldn’t possibly be prepared for, because the truth was too awful to contemplate-

He watches his own face on-screen drain of colour, but turns his focus to Eames, standing just behind him.

On-screen Eames frowns, and looks at Arthur’s back, gaze glancing down to where Arthur knows his hands are clenching uselessly in panic. Eames then takes a step up, and, with a gentle but firm hand on Arthur’s back, nudges Arthur off the podium and takes his place.

This Eames is a far cry from the laughing, shirtless man on the earlier photos on the _Daily Mail_. Eames here is buttoned up in full uniform, expression firm, jawline strong.

He looks, Arthur has to admit, fucking resplendent.

On-screen Eames has started speaking, but Arthur isn’t hearing what he’s saying. He knows how this goes anyway. Instead he just watches; watches and listens to the steady, reassuring and crisply accented voice that has been in the back of his mind ever since he first heard it, Eames’ cutting remarks in the side-room be damned.

_‘Just, just grab my hand okay, Arthur? It’s going to be alright, I promise. I’m here and I’m not leaving you.’_

Arthur knows there’s a million and one people out there with British accents, but he’s never met anyone who’s said his name quite the same way Eames did.

Arthur has barely slept the past week, but he dreams of the balcony every single time he closes his eyes. He dreams of the feeling of his feet kicking in open air, the painfully strong hand wrapped around his wrist and a voice in his ear saying, ‘ _I’ve got you’_.

Eames had no loyalty to Arthur at all. They’d never met, and it was quite clear from Eames’ reaction to being paid off that he’d no ulterior motive in saving him.

And Eames had pulled him, literally, back from the brink.

So Arthur had made him lie, paid him to keep quiet and then threatened to take away his job, home and friends.

“Fucking hell,” Arthur groans, not for the first time, and throws his phone onto the rug next to him.

Mal was right. Of course Mal was right – ‘Arthur of the failed suicide-attempt’ would completely devastate any prospect of his album selling well. He had an image to maintain; an image of cool collectedness, with a warm streak of self-deprecation and generosity. He was funny, he was smart, he was the young man who had overcome insurmountable odds, and was humble enough to recognize that. He donated vast amounts of his earnings straight into charities. No ex had ever dished the dirt on him to the press because Arthur didn’t have exes because Arthur didn’t date. His record was as squeaky clean as anyone in the business could hope for.

Keeping that record meant sometimes having to make sacrifices. It meant always having the best lawyers and meant sometimes having to play the bad cop and reproducing the little warning speech he’d given to Eames. Nothing could be let slide, nothing could be passed off as ‘hopefully it’ll be alright.’ Every loose end had to be tied up and assured.

Except Arthur had never felt less reassured in his life about the way he had dealt with Eames.

In fact, he feels pretty awful.

He hadn’t told either of the Cobbs about what was said in the side-room with Eames, and he doesn’t think they would be very sympathetic if he did. The hard-ass speech was straight from Mal’s book; she’d be proud more than anything. No, the guilt was something he’d have to deal with on his own.

Arthur chews his thumbnail and looks out over the orange glow of the sunrise gleaming on the Empire State building and thinks.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is incredibly generous and Ariadne finally gets her trip to New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT:
> 
> The depth and breadth of my apologies for the mass delay on this are BOUNDLESS. I am so, so sorry I hate WIPs with a passion and I ask you to trust me when I say I *promise* this fic will not be one. I have a plan, I have an ending and I have around 10,000 words more story on which I'm cushioning these updates.
> 
> I have three semi-valid reasons for this latest delay so hear me out:
> 
> 1\. It's the summer. Everything is up in the air, I have no routine and unreliable wifi at every turn.
> 
> 2\. I've had deadlines for Actual Writing Things including a truly terrible interview write up where I had to condense 8,000 words into 2,000 and for a very wordy person this was nOT FUN.
> 
> 3\. I am preparing to move from the UK to Canada for a year to study! Which is thrilling. And terrifying. And has required crazy amounts of planning.
> 
> I would also like to take this opportunity to thank my wonderful proofreader Naira who has done a fabulous job. Honestly it's such a lovely novelty to me that a complete stranger on the internet is willing to give up their time and offer up their enthusiasm for fic (see Mum they're not all stalker/serial killers.)

Ariadne is in a duvet cocoon. She literally could not be more cocooned if she tried. There isn’t a single part of her body that isn’t snuggled up in 600 thread-count bedding.

(New sheets and bedding were one of the first things that Eames had decided to buy with his £25,000. Ariadne said that made him an Actual Grandma, but then Eames had gifted her with her own set and she’d stopped complaining pretty quickly after that.)

She decided to enter said-cocoon state partly because Eames was being a little suffocatingly protective and she wanted to escape him, and partly because the whole being swamped by paparazzi in the park thing really had shaken her and being in a cocoon felt safe.

Eames apologized the entire way home, and she’d told him he was being an idiot because he _was,_ she _got it_ okay, it wasn’t his fault - but ‘getting it’ unfortunately didn’t stop it being any less terrifying.

There must have been 30 or so reporters and cameramen (Ariadne has no idea where they even _came_ from, what do they even do all day?) and as soon as people saw the rush, members of the public had started to join in too, iPhones held above their heads, craning their necks to get a decent look at whatever or whoever was causing such a stir.

They were just on a _jog_.

Ariadne has since received messages from 5 different people telling her about an article on the Daily Mail that she needs to read. Maheera from work had just sent her a text of a dozen tomato emojis and a winky face.

It’s mortifying, a crippling invasion of privacy and abuse of consent on a national scale – but mostly right now Ariadne feels half tempted to drag Eames out somewhere where the paparazzi are definitely going to be when she _isn’t_ resembling a human bottle of ketchup. She’d wear her heels next time as well.

God. Maybe Eames was right to be anxious about the whole 15 minutes of fame thing.

That being said, it’s been over a week and today was their first bad experience. Aside from a dozen or so completely overwhelmed people in the street asking for a selfie with Eames and the fact that they had received their treat Thai meal out for free, compliments of the manager who happened to be a huge Arthur fan, life hadn’t changed much. Half of Twitter raged on about how it was a crime Eames’ good looks were wasted as a policeman, and the other half continued to swoon over what a hero he was – but going through the tweets was just an evening’s entertainment. Eames didn’t have Twitter, so he didn’t really read them, or care.

The whole ‘not-caring’ thing was a good act; but then again, Ariadne was a good friend.

Eames hadn’t seemed his usual self in the past couple of days. There was a tension that hadn’t been there before whenever they left the flat. He spoke quietly in public as though afraid of being overheard. When they found themselves at Piccadilly Circus, passing a huge billboard featuring a practically shirtless Arthur advertising Patek Phillipe watches, Eames actually winced. And when he thought Ariadne wasn’t looking, there was a sadness about him too. A guilt, that all the hugs from Ariadne and kisses from Stevie in the world couldn’t help subside.

Because Eames was still beating himself up about what he’d said to Arthur. About the possibility of having screwed him up more than he already was.

It is still beyond strange to Ariadne to think about Arthur in that context, to imagine him as some damaged, fame-ruined star. The guy Ariadne has idolized for nearly 3 years, the smart, suave, devastatingly handsome singer with a voice that reverberates in her _soul_ \- his first ever original single, ‘Nothing Quite Like it’, remains to this day _her_ song - _he_ always seemed so put-together in live performances and during interviews. Then-Arthur was flawless, infallible somehow, despite his traumatic childhood. And yet now she found herself questioning how much of that had been real.

She thought she knew him.

Eames, on the other hand, had actually met him _in person_ , and then, without so much as an introduction, had wound up talking Arthur out of throwing himself off a building.

Ariadne squeezes her eyes shut and curls a little tighter in her cocoon.

Eames knew him, knew Arthur. He hadn’t wanted to especially, or made any great effort to seek him out– he’d just been doing his job, and in the process had seen a side of Arthur the press had never come close to dishing the dirt on. In many ways to Eames, Arthur wasn’t really a celebrity at all – he was a job. A job that Eames had first succeeded in, and then undermined by letting emotions cloud his professional capability.

Despite the press, Arthur had yet to make any public appearances since the hotel conference. His tell-all interview with Ellen had been delayed. No site had any photos even of Arthur just going about day to day life last time Ariadne had checked.

Maybe Eames was right to worry.

Ariadne pokes her head out of the cocoon.

“Eames?”

The apartment is quiet in the late-morning sun, but Eames appears at her door almost instantly. He’d taken a shower and his hair is still damp and stuck up in spikes. It wasn’t even lunchtime but he’d already changed back into soft flannel pajamas. It was clear that he’d made the same decision as Ariadne; neither of them were going to be leaving the house today.

Ariadne’s blind is half-shuttered, the light filtering through, highlighting dust mites swirling in the air. It falls on Eames’ face as he leans against the door frame. He looks young and tired and, if Ariadne is being honest, as devastatingly attractive as Twitter makes him out to be.

“Yes my little caterpillar?” he says, voice a little hoarse. Ariadne wiggles in her cocoon obligingly.

“Fetch me my iPad will you?”

Eames rolls his eyes, but disappears from view only to reappear with the iPad a second later.

“Laziness,” Eames accuses, and flops down on the mattress next to her.

Ariadne squirms her arms out of the cocoon and goes onto Google. She types ‘Arthur’ into Search out of habit, and feels Eames sigh quietly.

The Daily Mail article about them on the jog is near the top, but Ariadne bypasses that quickly.

The next hit down is a live YouTube link. Arthur is apparently currently being interviewed on the Today Show in New York.

“Ari-“ Eames, a little warningly, but Ariadne shushes him. This is Arthur’s first televised appearance since the hotel press conference. She wants to see how he’s doing. Eames _needs_ to see how he’s doing.

The feed loads and then Arthur’s handsome face is filling the screen and he’s laughing, politely admittedly, but laughing, at something the interviewer has said.

Ariadne can almost feel the tension leaving Eames.

“This is very, very true,” on-screen Arthur says, and smiles, ducking his head as he does so, cheeks dimpling.

“He always does that,” Ariadne says softly, unable to switch off the inner fangirl monologue, “It’s like he’s embarrassed to smile or something. It’s so adorable and so annoying. Is ‘bashful’ even a thing in this century?”

The interviewer is grinning so hard it’s got to hurt.

“Well, all I can say about the last week you’ve had is that we’re all so glad you’re still here with us today!”

The surrounding crowd screams faintly in the background.

Arthur looks suddenly serious, nodding intently.

“Yes, me too, believe me. It’s been a rollercoaster of a week – the Brit Award was an incredible honor but then of course what happened at the hotel was… well, unplanned to say the least. I’m so grateful to the staff at the hotel who were just wonderful, and of course to London’s law enforcement.”

The crowd screams even louder, and the interviewer smiles knowingly.

“Yes, I understand you have a lot to thank a certain Officer Eames for?”

The crowd goes insane, and the camera pans along the front row of predominantly screaming girls.

“Jesus Christ,” Eames mutters, and Ariadne grins. Of course Eames’ fan club had spread to the US as well. They’d be stupid _not_ to be a fan.

In some ways it’s strangely satisfying to Ariadne to watch the whole world finally catch on to the fact that Eames is an incredible person. It was about time really.

“If he were watching, is there anything you’d like to say to him now?” The interviewer presses.

This is clearly a question Arthur has been expecting, and he seems to steel himself a little, before turning straight to the camera.

Eames stiffens next to her and Ariadne reaches out to squeeze his hand.

“Yes, actually,” on-screen Arthur says, “I’d like to reiterate my most sincere thanks to Officer Eames. He went above and beyond his job and what he’d signed up to do. I don’t think at the time I made it fully clear how grateful I was, and am. He saved my life, and though no monetary gift could ever quite match the incredible significance and bravery of that act, I’m hoping that he’ll approve of me making a donation in his name to a very important UK charity, the Prince’s Trust.”

Ariadne squeaks. Eames is completely frozen by her side.

Arthur’s brow furrows into a slight frown. “I’d also like to request on his behalf that the press refrain from hounding him. As I understand, Eames is just trying to get on with his job, and it isn’t fair that he and his friends are being harassed because he has an association with me. He’s an honorable man who did an incredible thing, and doesn’t deserve to be treated as anything less.”

The interviewer is back with that jaw-breaking smile.

“Well those are very touching words Arthur, and I’m sure the ‘local London bobby’,” her attempt at a British accent is criminally awful, “turned globally recognized hero will appreciate them too. Now you’re going to be singing for us I understand?”

“I am,” Arthur nods, “and I’m afraid as Calvin can’t be here, it’s going to be an acoustic-cated version. Is ‘acoustic-cated’ a word? I don’t know, it is now,” and the interviewer cackles hysterically, as Arthur waves to the camera before taking to main mic in the middle of the stage.

The opening chords of ‘Worth A Shot’ ring out and Ariadne knows how this goes, so she turns down the volume to stare at Eames.

“Eames. What the hell.”

“The fuck does he know about the Prince’s Trust?” Eames asks, sounding a little hysterical. “How does he know about that Ari?”

“Eames, you’re missing the point here,” Ariadne can hear her heartbeat in her ears, it’s beating so loudly. Even her hands are sweaty.

She struggles out of the duvet cocoon.

“Eames,” she says again, “Eames that was an _apology_. To _you._ On the _Today Show.”_

Eames is still staring at the iPad, apparently still in shock.

She shakes his shoulder.

“Think about it Eames! Apart from obviously just outright thanking you, he’s referring to what you guys talked about in private. ‘No _monetary_ gift’ could match what you did - he’s apologizing for thinking you had to be bought out, right? The fact that you’re trying to get on with your job and friends and the press should respect you? He’s taking back the stuff he said about making sure you’d lose everything if you made him ‘fall’. The fact you’re apparently a fucking ‘ _honourable man_ ’?!”

Eames finally moves and scrubs a hand over his face, eyes wide.

“He feels _just_ as bad as _you do_ Eames,” Ariadne says, and it’s a fucking revelation.

On the iPad, Arthur hits the high note in ‘Worth a Shot’ pitch perfect. The crowd roars.

“How much did he donate?” Eames asks, dazed.

Ariadne closes the YouTube video and Googles.

Then she balks.

“Um.”

Eames reads it over her shoulder anyway.

“Half a million dollars? Half a _fucking million?_ ” He sounds like someone has punched him in the throat.

“That’s like, what, 350 grand?” Ariadne guesses, half laughing because there’s nothing else she can do in this moment.

She clicks on the article and reads aloud.

“Prince Charles has released a statement saying that he’s thrilled that the charity is receiving the attention it deserves and also that he really likes Arthur’s ‘latest hit.’”

Eames drops his head into the pillow. “How did he know?” he says again, muffled.

As Ariadne clicks back, she skims past the Daily Mail jogging article, and it hits her.

“Your shirt. The shirt you were wearing on our run? It’s one of theirs from that charity marathon you did way back.”

It’s incredible, unbelievable but the only explanation, that Arthur had based a $500,000 donation to the charity that had saved Eames from ending his life, drowning in his own blood in some gutter, off a _t-shirt_.

Eames makes an unidentifiable noise into the bedding and then rolls onto his back.

“Well,” Ariadne says grandly, flinging the iPad down onto the mattress with a flourish, “that, is one hell of a way to make an apology.”

“But _I’m_ the one who was going to say sorry to _him_ ,” Eames says to the ceiling. He meets Ariadne’s eye, and his lips quirk in a disbelieving smile.

“He fucking beat me to it.”

Ariadne laughs and tackles him in a hug.

“Hey, you’ve still got time! And _I_ know what we’ve got to do now.”

Eames tucks Ariadne into a headlock on his chest, messing up her hair.

“What?” he asks, and he sounds better than he has in days. The sadness has gone from his eyes, the tension eased.

Ariadne grins toothily. “Book tickets to New York of course, you dipshit.”

 

* * *

  

Mal is not amused.

Arthur’s trying to tuck into the brunch Saito had whipped up for him on his arrival home, but it’s a little distracting to have her watching him like a hawk, arms crossed.

One high-heeled foot taps on the marble irritably.

“We did not discuss this donation Arthur,” she says, tightly.

Dom isn’t very impressed either.

“Album pre-sales are exceeding expectations which is great, but you aren’t _actually_ Taylor Swift yet,” he says.

Arthur honestly feels lighter than he has in months. He even enjoyed performing. He’d forgotten what that felt like.

Donating to the Trust felt like the first positive thing he’d done in far too long. It hadn’t been hard to track the charity down based on Eames’ shirt. It had been even less effort to find the page ‘From Living On the Streets to Patrolling Them: Eames’ Success Story’. The article didn’t go into too much detail but it was clear that Eames had a less than comfortable adolescence involving gang crime and drug-pushing in the East End, and now ran countless half-marathons and spoke at galas to raise awareness of a charity that had helped him so much personally.

From the speech Arthur had watched that Eames had given at a Christmas event last year, it honestly sounded like times had gotten so hard Eames was lucky to have reached his twenties.

Arthur felt a kinship with that particular sentiment.

“We can’t just _throw_ money away,” Dom is saying.

Arthur piles his fork high with poached egg and bagel and shrugs.

“Sure we can, I earnt it.”

Mal’s eyes flash dangerously.

“We do not have _half a million_ to spare.”

“Well,” Arthur says, practically, “the transaction this morning seemed to go through just fine, so I guess we do.”

“ _Arthur,”_ Mal hisses, “This is no time for jokes. I have spent an hour speaking to Andy et _il est absolument incandescence de rage.”_

Arthur knows he’s hit close to home when Mal lapses into French.

“I thought charity donations were good for my ‘nice guy’ image,” Arthur says, “served as a nice contrast to the bad boy shirtless vibe in the music videos.” He doesn’t try to sound bitter, but he guesses that’s how it must come across.

For once, it’s Dom who breaks.

He slams his hand down on the counter so hard Arthur jumps, dropping his cutlery.

“ _Damnit_ Arthur! Fucking _listen_ to what we’re saying!”

His face is a deep red and there’s a vein jumping visibly at his temple; Arthur doesn’t think he’s ever seen Dom this angry.

“You’re behaving like a spoilt child. You barely speak for months, then you go and pull this stunt in London that we have been working _night and day_ to prevent a PR meltdown over, and now this? We’ve had to cash out far more than we can afford to keep far too many people quiet than we can feasibly control, and now you throw away savings? This is how you fucking repay us? After everything we’ve done?”

Arthur clenches his jaw and doesn’t say anything.

Dom exhales angrily. He’s pinching his nose between his finger and thumb.

“I always thought we were lucky to have you – to have someone down-to-earth and talented and fucking _sensible_ about fame. Someone we’d consider more of a son than a client. We’re not just your managers Arthur, we’re your _family_. Or at least, the closest thing you have to one.”

Mal hums in agreement and a voice hisses _it’s true_ in the back of Arthur’s head.

 “But you need to fucking pull yourself together, alright? London we can just about cope with, and yes, you’re right – charity donations are far from the worst thing we could be spending our budget on and we certainly can’t take it back, but we have to be _smart_. You’re 21 years old Arthur. We don’t expect you to be making the decisions, but we _do_ expect you to listen to us.” When Dom enters into full Dad-lecture mode there is no stopping him.

Sometimes Arthur needs reminding that the two of them are barely a decade older than him. That they’re not _actually_ his parents.

Mal finally stops tapping her foot and moves to Arthur’s side. She squeezes his shoulder comfortingly.

“We’re so proud of you _mon cher_. But we’ve come so far and we can’t let anything slip through our fingers now. It’s more important than ever before, especially with the album.”

Arthur looks up at the two of them; Dom still fuming, Mal firm, her dark eyes carefully assessing. He feels oddly like he’s just been grounded.

“We have to go and meet with Sandra for a tour venue discussion. I think a quiet afternoon will be good for you,” Mal says. Arthur knows that ‘quiet afternoon’ translates to ‘no leaving the apartment.’

They leave Arthur to his cold eggs.

The fridge hums. The fish tank bubbles.

Arthur decides he doesn’t feel hungry anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

New York is beyond incredible. It’s larger than life, a relentlessly busy, sprawling hub of places and people; like every film Eames has ever seen and more, because it’s flawed too, there’s homelessness on the streets and the same gritty city air as London but still. It’s _New York._

The streets are ruler straight and stretch on as far as the eye can see in neat, self-same blocks. Buildings tower above them, red brick and steel and sheets of never-ending glass.

“’Littleness gets swallowed up here’,” Eames says, beaming and almost cricking his neck trying to look up to the top of the building they’re currently next to. He hasn’t been able to stop smiling since they landed. He knows this is Ariadne’s dream, but it’s the first time he’s ever been out of Europe and it’s honestly a little like he’s entered another world. Everyone speaks English and yet it’s nothing like home, the cabs are yellow not black and Eames has nearly been killed about 5 times now stepping out without looking the right way when crossing the road.

 “Nerd,” Ariadne accuses, but then is distracted by a huge display of bagels in a shop window and immediately insists they go in.

It’s a surprisingly mild day for April, easing into the 20s, and Eames is comfortable forgoing a jumper, Ariadne pleased for an excuse to wear her pillar-box red 50s-esque skirt. The skirt keeps being ruffled; in the warm breeze that greets them as they round street corners and in the soft air drifting up through the subway gratings.

They’re here because Eames can afford it and because he genuinely did want to treat Ariadne to the holiday she’s been hankering for for as long as he’s known her. They’re also here because, quite frankly, after the month they’ve had, a break (an escape) is long overdue.

Eames had been woefully ignorant in his estimation of everything blowing over in 2 weeks. He had not anticipated paparazzi to accost them in the park or to linger around outside the police station hoping for a statement on Arthur every time he finished a shift. He had not expected the fan-pages and Twitter accounts to _continue_ to grow. Following Arthur’s donation, suddenly everything about Eames’ involvement with the Prince’s Trust and his status as one of their success stories was dug up too and shared on social media for everyone to see.

_Officer Eames, now quite possibly the most famous policeman in the country, was asked to comment on the generous donation made by global superstar Arthur on his behalf to the Prince’s Trust._

_‘It’s an incredible thing,’ he said, ‘the Trust is such an important organisation to so many, myself included, and that amount of money is going to be able to do so much good. I’d like to extend my sincerest thanks to Arthur for the gesture. It won’t go unappreciated.’_

_The Trust has already announced that the money will go into their latest campaign collaborating with the charity Centrepoint, to reduce youth homelessness and set young people up with accommodation and access to jobs. Having benefited from a similar scheme himself growing up, there is little doubt Eames’ heartfelt gratitude is genuine._

Eames had thought his morally questionable time spent as a teen might start to put people off, but he couldn’t have been more wrong.

“Everyone loves a rags to riches story I guess,” Yusuf said, shrugging, “but hey man. What do I know? People just want to love you. I would be very flattered.”

Aside from having his personal life and teenage years analyzed after Arthur’s donation, all in all it hadn’t been so bad.

Up until last week that is, when Eames had come back to the flat to a distraught Ariadne. She’d been hounded by reporters at the gallery, who had proceeded to batter her with questions as she tried to leave work.

“They- they just kept asking me if I lived with you _,_ ” Ariadne had said, voice hitching in between sobs, “and that’s _true_ but then they kept referring to you as my _boyfriend,_ and- and I tried to explain and they just wouldn’t let me and twisted my words back at me and- and, oh _Eames,_ I’m so sorry I did a fucking _sh-shit_ job of defending you and explaining us-.”

 _The Daily Mail Online_ ran with some utter bull-crap piece about Ariadne’s lack of support for her hero-boyfriend the day after, and the comments were impossibly cruel.

Eames is planning on releasing a statement or something when they got back. It’s ridiculous they are even having to _think_ like this, but then, Eames is quickly learning that there isn’t anything about fame that _wasn’t_ ridiculous.

Now was not the time to be worrying about that though. Yusuf had been more than understanding when Eames rang and said they needed to take some time away. And now they were in New York. Littleness was swallowed up. And Eames had never felt more blissful in being little.

“Sooooo,” Ariadne says, munching on a butter icing bagel, “I’m thinking we go to the Hard Rock Café for lunch, and then we hit up Madison Avenue?”

Eames eyes the bagel in her hands pointedly.

“We’re on holiday!” she protests, “so what if I have like 8 meals a day! We need to be fueled for this afternoon anyway.”

Eames sighs, steels himself for the speech he’s now given more times than he can count. “Ariadne, do you really think just walking into Sony’s head offices and saying, ‘Hey, you know your current top artist? The one that’s incredibly busy earning you millions and also terribly good-looking? Do you mind if we have a quick chat?’ is going to work? Do you _really_.”

Ariadne looks unperturbed. “You’re forgetting, you’re _Eames._ They’ll recognize you.”

“And you are forgetting that we’ve been here nearly 48 hours now and not a single person has recognized me.” It had been pretty wonderful as far as Eames was concerned, “New Yorkers are just far too busy living it up to pay attention to small-time London police officers.”

This does not go down well with Ariadne and she pretty much refuses to speak to him over lunch unless he ‘changes that attitude right now.’

Eames laughs when she tells him. “Look love, I didn’t say we wouldn’t try alright? But I think we need to be realistic. Arthur is a millionaire who most likely has bloody Beyoncé on speed-dial. He was very generous with his donation, but that’s honestly most likely his way of putting an end to the whole thing. Drawing a line under it all, under me. We didn’t exactly meet in the most cheery of circumstances, nor did we leave things particularly well either. He may well not want to see me.”

Ariadne sniffs and sips her milkshake.

“He apologised Eames, he apologised to _you._ That donation wasn’t just a PR stunt. He genuinely felt bad for treating you like shit. I thought you felt the same?”

It’s true. Ariadne knows that the guilt, the worry that Arthur still isn’t in a great mental state, has been gnawing away at Eames. He doesn’t want to admit it, but that is more than partly why he’d agreed to come here, no matter how much he wanted to paint the whole thing as a necessary rest-bite from the pressures back home.

“I know,” Eames concedes, “and you are, as ever, right. And he’s gone up considerably in my estimations because of it. And I _do_ still want to make my own apologies, if I can, but please don’t say you’ll be disappointed if we can’t.”

“I shall promise no such thing,” Ariadne says, and the fierce glint is back in her eyes again.

Some days Eames used to think if he were straight, they’d make an ideal couple. Other days he realizes he wouldn’t last a week dating her.

Eames doesn’t believe in fate. He has never been a superstitious person; has never been swayed by the idea that the universe is based on divine providence or karmic intervention.

But later, on the plane home when Ariadne has drifted off to sleep on his shoulder and the sun is dipping beneath the carpet of cloud beneath them that he thinks something must have been at work.

Something that dictated the turns of events whereby Ariadne requested a loo stop just opposite Sony’s offices in Madison square; something that decided that when Eames turned to meander into the park a little - there he was, dressed in dark glasses and a hoodie, the very person they’d crossed the Atlantic to see.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally get their meet-cute. Arthur's album drops, and Ariadne gets an exciting invite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .............. hi guys 
> 
> I could start in on apologies but a) that's just so author's notes cliché and b) like I mentioned previously, I have spent the past two months actually moving countries (UK to Canada!!! Why did I think this was a good plan!!) so Life has Been Cray to say the least.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter! I totally apologise for the typos which are all mine and I totally don't apologise for the Taylor Swift appearance.
> 
> (Taylor gets it okay? Listen to the Lucky One and you'll get that she gets it.)

“Arthur,” someone says, and Arthur is so taken aback, so shocked to hear the voice he’s heard every night in his dreams out here in the light of day _,_ that it’s a very close thing he doesn’t fall flat on his face.

As it is, he whips round on the spot and – fucking hell – there he is, the London police officer, scruff on his jaw, standing in the dappled shade of the redbud blossoms.

He may not be dressed in the clean, sharp lines of full uniform, but Arthur still thinks he looks fucking resplendent.

Which is probably why Arthur can’t think of a single thing to say. He just gapes at him.

 “Sorry,” Eames says casually, as though there’s nothing strange about him being in the middle of New York, in the park Arthur walks through multiple times a week, and his lips quirk at the corners like he’s trying not the smile, “didn’t mean to scare you there. I can’t imagine you’d expected to see me today.”

He looks over Arthur’s shoulder to make eye contact with Saito, and nods in greeting. “Hey.”

Arthur’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. He feels a little bit like he’s going to faint.

He senses Saito step up behind him, obviously picking up on Arthur’s unease.

Arthur stares at Eames for a long moment, then tilts his head just a little to look at him over the rims of his glasses. He’s exactly the same as Arthur remembers, except in jeans and a horrible peach-coloured shirt. Broad-shouldered, dishwater blond hair, kind eyes. He is a little slimmer though, as if he’s lost weight.

 _Probably stress-induced due to the fact you fucked over his life,_ Arthur’s brain provides helpfully.

“You’re in New York?” he asks, voice dying halfway through the question.

Eames smiles properly this time, and Arthur is slightly stunned by it.

“Yeah,” Eames says easily, “yeah it’s lovely – incredible, really. We’ve never been to the States before and it is quite something.”

Arthur nods, and they stand there for a second, a strange tension between them.

“Are you here with your girlfriend?” Arthur blurts out suddenly, and oh my _god_ why did he say that, _why_ did he ask that, so what if that article about Ariadne Lafayette had been on a loop in his head since he read it, it was no excuse to be such a _complete ass_ -

Eames raises an eyebrow, bemused. “You of all people should know not to believe the papers,” he says and Arthur can feel himself blushing fiercely, even as Eames smiles. “And no, Ariadne is my best friend and flat-mate. Not girlfriend.”

And then he adds, like an afterthought, “I’m gay actually.”

“Me too,” Arthur says, quickly, because apparently he’s opting for an early death by mortification.

Eames’ face goes slack with genuine surprise, before he quickly recovers.  

“Well that’s great,” Eames says, somewhat lamely, and the awkwardness returns again.

Saito coughs unsubtly at Arthur’s back and Arthur remembers himself. Hell, he can’t be seen to be having an unscheduled catch up with Eames in the middle of a public park. He clears his throat.

“Right, um, well it was nice to – “

“You look well,” says Eames, and then cringes slightly. “I mean, you look well in person. I know you’ve been out and about performing and giving interviews and whatnot, but you just … look good.”

Now it’s Eames’ turn to look embarrassed, even as Arthur feels a hot flush all over.

“Thanks,” he says. He feels well, relatively speaking.

Eames bites his lip then, looking around them and takes a step closer. “Actually, hate to bother you, but would you mind if I speak to you for a moment?”

Arthur is about to question what they’ve just spent the last 5 minutes doing, but then he sees Saito circling in his periphery and catches Eames meaning.

“Saito, could you give us just a minute?” he asks, and though Saito looks thoroughly unimpressed by this idea, he ducks his head in acknowledgement and walks some 10 meters away.

Arthur turns back to Eames. He looks oddly nervous.

“Right, I’ll just get this out there - I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for what I said, after the press conference,” Eames says, all in a rush, and that –

Well, that was not what Arthur was expecting.

Eames scrubs a hand behind his neck and avoids making eye contact. “Look, I know you were a right arse as well but you’d also been through a pretty intense night and I was just tired and freaked out by all the cameras and the cheques and the whole not telling the straight up facts which is usually a big part of my job, and I spoke rashly and unprofessionally and, god, _dishonestly_ too.”

Eames finally looks up.

His eyes are a stunning bluey-green in the spring sunshine.

“I don’t wish I could take back what I said on the balcony. And I didn’t say what I did because I ‘had to’. Not entirely, anyway. I said it because I meant it too.”

Arthur feels like a crushing weight that he’d become so accustomed to he hadn’t even noticed it, has suddenly been lifted from his chest. He’d been more preoccupied by the guilt of threatening the person who’d saved his life than Eames’ words back in that side-room, but he instantly knows he’d been harboring those too. The thought that yet another person in his life had lied to him, had told him what they had to, what they thought he wanted to hear.

He can’t think of a single thing to say in response to Eames, but every fiber in his body is singing out _thank you, thank god you found me, thank you for saying that, thank you for taking it back._

Eames smiles; his teeth are crooked, how hasn’t Arthur noticed that before? “Because you really are a good person. Hell, for starters donating that amount of money to the Prince’s Trust on my behalf? That’s an incredible thing to do. I should probably thank you for that by the way.”

Arthur can’t help but smile back, finding his voice again. “No need - that was more an apology for the press than anything else. They’re a fucking _nightmare_ and honestly the worst part of this whole fame thing. I didn’t see the Twitter fan accounts coming though.”

Eames throws his head back and laughs, and Arthur feels the last of any tension melt away.

“God I know, neither did I,” Eames says, “it’s ridiculous.”

Arthur shrugs, grinning. “It’s not helped by the fact you’re as good-looking as you are, you know. The number of people who are suggesting you would be good boyfriend material for me is unreal; and I’m not even out yet.”

Eames goes faintly pink and now it’s Arthur’s turn to laugh; he had forgotten what it felt like to flirt.

When he stops, it’s to Eames watching him with a strange expression on his face.

“What?”

“You really do seem much better,” Eames tells him, suddenly gentle, “it’s a good look on you.”

And although it’s true, since Arthur made that promise to the clouds at 40,000 feet he’s felt a little steadier, a little more certain in his ability to keep going, it’s not the only thing. Arthur is tempted to wonder how much of Eames’ assessment is Arthur actually being better and the effect that spending 10 minutes with Eames seems to have had on him, but he knows better than to go down that road.

“Well,” he says, “they’ll be no repeats of London any time soon, I can promise you that.” Because really, that’s all he can promise with any confidence.

Eames smiles again. “Glad to hear it mate.”

The sun passes behind a cloud, and the park is plunged into shadow. Arthur senses Saito coming back their way. It’s amazing they’ve been able to stand here this long without being noticed really.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, “I should probably-“

“Of course, I understand.”

“But hey, it was- it was nice bumping into you. Like this.”

“It was,” Eames agrees, “unexpected but nice.”

Saito arrives at Arthur’s elbow, and is radiating so strongly the need to get moving Arthur knows not to ignore it. He thinks he’s spotted the group of young teenagers a little further up the path recognizing him as well.

“I’m sure I’ll see you again,” Arthur says, not quite sure what makes him say it -

“I hope so,” and Eames is backing up, saluting Saito, eyes lingering on Arthur.

Turning and walking in the other direction is unexpectedly difficult.

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur’s debut album drops in less than 3 days. Times Square have an entire fucking billboard dedicated to a countdown clock ticking away the seconds.

Arthur has every right to be feeling terrified and hyped and nervous out of his goddamned mind right now.

Curiously though, he doesn’t think the impending album has anything to do with the fact he feels like his pulse his kicked up several notches.  

“Will you be seeing him again?” Saito enquires, falling into step with Arthur as they walk quickly through the park, Arthur ducking his head away from the gaggle of teenage girls who are whispering to each other excitedly and pointing in his direction.

“I don’t know. Probably unlikely.” His heart is still hammering, his hands feel a bit trembly. God, he had so not been prepared for this today.

“I think,” Saito says carefully, “maybe you should.”

Arthur scoffs, turns to give Saito a pointed look.

“Where’s this come from? I thought you didn’t like him.”

Saito nods, as though conceding a point. “This is true – he is less, _textbook_ shall we say, than other members of my profession. But he was there when I was not, so I cannot begrudge him much.”

“Saito, you’d been practically a second skin for that entire week,” Arthur says, laughing because he still feels a little high, a little ditsy in the incredible fact of fate coming together in this park, on this day. “For the millionth time, I _wanted_ you to take the evening off after the Brits.”

“Yes, and your motivations for that were entirely to be trusted,” Saito says, a little slyly, and it’s a testament to how much Arthur actually really likes Saito that he can get away with basically joking about Arthur’s suicide attempt.

“Okay, you make a fair point. But please stop beating yourself up about not being there.”

“I can’t promise that Arthur.”

“I’ll _dock your pay_ so help me, please, it’s getting old. I can’t cope with any more guilt in my life.”

Saito sighs, tight and controlled, but he’s half smiling too. “I’ll do my best.”

“You always do,” Arthur affirms, smiling back.

They cross the road into the Sony building, the atrium stretching out high above them. Mal and Dom will have arrived already; Arthur is late, and he feels the low-grade anxiety of that fact start to seep under his skin.

“He made you laugh,” Saito says suddenly, “I spend many hours a day with you Arthur, and laughter has become an increasingly rare part of those days.”

Saito reaches forward to push the call button for the elevator.

Arthur stares at him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he says, a little defensively.

Saito sends him a sidelong smile.

“He is, I understand, your type?”

“Oh my god, please let’s pretend you didn’t just say that,” Arthur mutters, blushing all over, and Saito chuckles dryly.

He’s still smiling when they step out on the 8th floor.

Arthur has a plan for the album release, a really good plan.

He’s got a good feeling about this.

 

* * *

 

 

In the morning, Eames arrests four people on drug charges, including a wife-beating bastard who his team have been trying to track down for going on 5 months. In the afternoon on patrol with Marco he persuades two kids loitering around Southbank skate-park to stop stinking the place out with weed and to go to a Princes’ Trust sponsored youth hostel for the night.

“You used to come round here, yeah? Kyle dealed wiv ya, I remember” the older of the two kids says, “but you’re a copper now?”

“Yeah, I am,” says Eames, and to his credit Marco doesn’t even so much as double-take next to him. “And you could be too one day mate. Anything’s better than rotting away down here.”

It’s a good day, all-in-all.

Ariadne has taken the day off and Eames can tell as soon as he lets himself in that she’s been to Columbia Road, because the flat smells overwhelmingly of jasmine.

Blaring from the computer speakers is a recording of Arthur’s album release live stream. Ariadne had made Eames stay up and watch it with her, and Eames had been quite charmed. Whatever fanfare or fireworks or dramatic ribbon cutting the press had expected, no one had anticipated a webcam live-stream of Arthur, just Arthur, sitting in his apartment living room at midnight with a mic positioned over him and piano keys beneath his fingers.

“This is not how the tracks on the album really sound,” he’d said, laughing and running a hand through the tousled mess of curls that was his hair, “obviously – they’re acoustic. But I wanted you to hear the album from me first? If that makes sense. And if I mess up you can’t hate me because this is all 100% live. And it’s been a cold day so my fingers are kinda numb.”

Except then he’d proceeded to play the entire album, bonus tracks included, all one hour long of beautiful, incredible, raw and live music. And he didn’t miss a single note.

Ariadne had squealed and cooed and awed and ahhed and the internet and pretty much every major news-site had done the same thing. A live, free, online performance of new music was unprecedented for an album release. That morning Ariadne had greeted Eames out of bed with the smug declaration that it was selling faster than ‘1989.’

Ariadne had obviously gone out and bought the album, which was largely pop-y and in-keeping with Arthur’s collabs with Calvin Harris, but it was the live stream she played all the time.

“Alright, so this next one is one of my favourite,” on-screen Arthur is saying, “but you have to imagine it with some super cool electronic bass in the background, and the wonderful added effects of my backing singers, okay? Okay,” and he laughs, looking tired and young and honestly quite beautiful.

Eames dumps his duffle by the door and leans back on the kitchen islands, surveying the state of their living space.

Ariande is standing on the sofa, watering a hanging pot of lily of the valleys and their kitchen is even more green than normal. Out on their postage stamp balcony Eames notes a new pot of wisteria, the flowers draped over the wrought iron railing, and a bamboo construction for sweet peas.

“I bet you made for an entertaining sight on the tube,” Eames says, and Ariadne laughs, teetering on the coffee table for balance, Stevie pacing anxiously in circles beside her.

“Oh you have no idea. But hey, I’m an artist without inspiration, so I figured – why not fill the flat with flowers I can’t afford?”

“This,” Eames concedes, “is an excellent point. Though how about some _useful_ plants some time Ariadne? I feel that both of us would benefit in a very nutritional way from more fresh vegetables. And by more, I mean any at all.”

Ariadne makes a derisive noise, and jumps down from the table.

“I don’t need ‘useful’ Eames, I need aesthetic.”

Eames grins to himself. “A true artist indeed. Aside from flower arranging, how was your day?”

“Tame, but not lame,” she goes over to the computer and turns down Arthur’s gentle crooning, “I spoke to my sister and talked her down from a panic attack about bridesmaid dresses, went to Columbia Road, took some polaroid’s of flowers, bought some flowers, got recognized on the tube and had to take a selfie with someone and field questions about you,” she rolls her eyes, “but y’know. Pretty standard. You?”

 “Successful!” Eames says cheerily, “Arrested people and got the bad guy, that kind of thing. Also ended up telling some kids off in a ‘look after yourself son’ sort of way. I’m feeling practically middle-aged these days.”

“Dude,” Ariadne says, slightly horrified, “we’re 25.”

“I’m an old soul,” Eames says, and brandishes a colander at her before turning to start on dinner.

It’s later, when he’s stirring noodles and trying not to let the bean sprouts catch that he leans back against the worktop and stares at the fridge.

Arthur’s calendar from last year is permanently open on November, because Ariadne liked the photo so much.

It’s a black and white shot of Arthur sitting at a grand piano in some manor house library. He’s dressed in a simple suit, head bowed over the piano, soft light through the huge window behind him casting shadows of his fingers on the keys.

“Ariadne,” Eames says suddenly, “I think I’m developing something of a crush on Arthur.”

Ariadne cackles with laughter from her position upside down on the sofa.

“Well, it’s about time you joined the rest of the planet. Good on you.”

“No seriously. I genuinely haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since New York.”

Ariadne’s eyes narrow – her face is slowly turning purple.

“I thought we agreed not to talk about New York.”

Eames adds a jar of sweet and sour sauce with a flourish to the bean sprouts.

“And I thought you _enjoyed_ our time in America?”

“I _did_ ,” Ariadne protests, “right up until you went and met my _celebrity idol_ while I was busy having a shit. I was with you the entire week Eames, basically every second, and the one time, the ONE TIME I’m not standing _physically_ in your presence – “

“Alright, alright,” Eames says, Ariadne has had this rant more times than Eames can count – at varying degrees of volume. “Have some sympathy here. I honestly don’t know what to do.”

“Suffer in silence? Cry about it on the internet? Get a tumblr? I don’t know Eames, people have dealt with celebrity crushes for years, they seem to manage.”

Eames bites his lip. The noodles are done but the sauce isn’t – why does this always happen.

“Except it’s a bit different for me isn’t it? He’s not really a celebrity to me. More some incredibly attractive bloke I pulled off a railing one time. And then appeared on telly with. And then bumped into again in New York outside his record company offices.”

Ariadne flips round on the sofa and gets up, swaying. Stevie, who lives to defy relatively simple house rules like ‘no dogs on the furniture’ immediately jumps up and sits in the spot she’s just vacated.

Ariadne takes the spatula from Eames and pushes him into a bar stool.

“Okay, this is true. Your claim on a relationship with Arthur is slightly different to his legions of fans. Myself exempted of course, because I am a True Fan and if he actually had a chance to meet me he’d fall madly in love with me.”

“He’s _gay,_ Ariadne.”

Ariadne sighs. That latter particular detail from Eames’ retelling of his conversation with Arthur had been of particular shock and mild disappointment to her, but she was over it now. Or rather, she would be.

“And he said I’m _good-looking_ ,” Eames says, still slightly in awe of it.

Ariadne looks at him like he’s said something incredibly un-profound.

“Both of which are points in your favour,” she tells him, “so – what are you going to do about it?”

Eames smiles wryly. Ever-practical Ariadne had returned.

“Cry about it on the internet?”

She rolls her eyes.

“No, you track him down and _talk to him again_ you idiot.”

“It was a once-in-a-blue-moon thing the first time Ari, I don’t think bumping into him in New York will work twice.”

“Something more concrete then,” Ariadne says easily, “something he’s definitely going to be at.”

“And that something,” Eames says, as Ariadne ladles noodles and sauce onto his plate, “brings us back to square one.”

Ariadne gives him the bigger of the two portions, so he kisses her on the cheek and she fusses and goes faintly pink.

Their dilemma is solved less than 2 days later, when Ariadne wakes Eames at some ungodly hour for his day off by leaping on him.

“Eames! Eamessss! I’m going to see him! In actual person!” she shrieks, brandishing her phone under Eames’ nose as though that is all the information he needs.

He groans, shifting himself onto his elbows.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asks, blearily.

“Graham Norton! Maheera got 2 tickets for Christmas and she dumped her boyfriend last week remember!? And so she’s inviting me instead! We’re going on Saturday!! And you’ll never _believe_ who is going to be on the show-“

She pauses for dramatic effect, grinning wildly, her hair still all over the place.

“Emilia Clarke, James McAvoy and _Arthur,_ ” she says his name reverently. “I’m actually going to be in the same room as him!!” And then she squeals with uncontainable excitement and Eames takes the opportunity to smother her fondly with a pillow.

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur isn’t one to keep track of the numbers and finances and all that, but by all accounts he thinks the album has gone down quite well.

It’s currently playing on a loop, and although this in itself wouldn’t be that surprising, he’s currently eating homemade chocolate chip cookies in Taylor Swift’s New York apartment, which adds some gravitas to this fact.

“I just _love_ this one,” Taylor says, slumping on the sofa next to him in an apparent cookie-enduced coma, “it’s definitely my favourite. It just makes me want to sit here and cry about everyone who has ever been mean to me. Which, y'know, is quite a lot of people.”

“Mal wanted me to cut it,” Arthur admits, nibbling on a chocolate chip. Meredith the cat is eyeing him with a death glare from the other side of the room. She’s actually making him a little nervous. He's always been more of a dog person. Now would not be the time to admit that though.

“What? Why!?”

“She said it was too slow. That the piano was boring.”

Taylor struggles in her unicorn onesie to twist round and face him.

“Arthur that’s such bullshit right? You know that’s bullshit.”

Arthur shrugs. “I was going to let her, but at the last minute Dom added the whistling and she decided it could work.”

“This is _genius._ Much better than Adam’s stuff.”

Arthur feels like he could mention that Taylor’s particular aversion to Calvin Harris might be slightly impacted by their very recent break-up, but he decides that would be cruel.

“I mean that collab was catchy, but this is _you_ , Arthur. This is _your_ music. It’s the same Arthur from that audition tape, the one that made everyone fall in love with you in the first place.”

Arthur nods, trades his cookie for pink lemonade.

Taylor plonks Olivia onto Arthur’s lap and sits up properly, now cat-free.

She looks at him seriously.

“You’ve got to have faith in that Arthur alright? You and your music can change as much as you want, but do the changing yourself. Don’t let _them_ change you.”

It is a simple enough idea, but it hits Arthur harder than anything else has this past week.

He grins at her. “Thanks, that means a lot.”

She smiles back. “Any time. Now, how do you feel about giving the world an aneurysm and appearing on my Instagram story?”

Arthur leans over to the coffee table for the reading glasses that never make a public appearance, and puts them on. Taylor crows.

“If you’re going to do something,” he proclaims, as though he’s educating the undisputed Queen of Pop, “you’ve got to do it right.”

Arthur can’t remember the last time fame felt this fun.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariadne goes to see Graham Norton. Eames goes for a drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> QUESTION: 
> 
> I'm super curious to know why people fell in love with Inception and this ship. It's so tiny and so obscure and yet it never fails to amaze me the quantity and quality of stuff this fandom produces. What was it for you - why are you here? And why are you still here? Let me know if you'd like to, I'd love to hear :) 
> 
> Thanks for sticking me and these erratic updates <3 I've had quite a few comments on my other older fics this past week which suggests to me people are getting over the whole-waiting-for-updates thing by reading my other stuff which is just the most flattering thing ever. 
> 
> Have a fab weekend friends! (Before the world goes up in flames because Trump is WINNING IN THE POLLS SAVE US)

Saturday rolls around incredibly quickly and because the tube workers are on strike and Ariadne lost her bus pass eons ago and _refuses_ to send off for a new one, she persuades Eames to give her a lift in his car.

“Don’t grumble like I’m inflicting you to some great hardship,” Ariadne says accusingly, “it’s not like you wouldn’t have come anyway. Studio-door loitering is the best shot you have of bumping into Arthur.”

“It’s literally a half hour walk. In the blazing sunshine,” Eames says, and Ariadne wisely choses to not hear him, despite standing less than 3 feet away.

Eames’ car is something of a joke. It’s a vintage mini, but vintage not in the gentrified, hipster sort of way; more in the way that it has a top speed of about 65 miles an hour on a good day, and was inherited from his Great Aunt along with the flat. Eames’ aunt had bought it in 1961 and it had once been a beautiful racing car bottle green. Now it lived in an underground garage around the corner from their flat because Eames was simply too fond to part with it – even though he could barely fit in it.

“I love your ridiculous car,” Ariadne says, as they squeeze themselves in. Stevie sticks his head over the front seat and licks her face affectionately.

Ariadne fixes Eames with a Look.

“He wanted to come,” Eames says primly, and backs up the car.

The queues outside the studios are impressively long already when they get there, but Ariadne is a literal ball of excitement so she sees Maheera and promptly throws herself out of the passenger door and barely looks back.

“See you loser!” she says, and Stevie half-clambers on Eames, trying to follow her.

Eames wrestles him into the backseat again.

“Nuh uh, you and I are going to go for a walk. Alright?”

It really is an unexpectedly beautiful day, so Eames finds no hardship in retracing the steps he’d made earlier that week with Marco along Southbank. Families and tourists are milling along the walkway, and there’s a guy with an afro making enormous bubbles with rope. There’s a group of kids chasing after the wobbly, rainbow bubbles in the evening light, squealing when they’re covered in fairy liquid.

The sun is beginning to dip, lengthening the shadows on the pavement and shimmering on the brownish water of the Thames.

Eames doesn’t really keep track of time, but walks until he’s nearly at London Bridge, and then turns back on himself. By the time he gets back to the mini, it’s starting to get cold, dusk setting in.

“Mr. Eames, so we meet again,” a voice says from the shadows of a nearby alleyway, and Eames very nearly jumps out of his skin.

Stevie tugs on the lead, tail whumping against Eames’ leg. He is the _worst_ guard dog.

Saito emerges, looking wryly amused but also like he’s thinking about 32 different ways he could disembowel Eames right here on the pavement. It seems to be a semi-permanent look on him.

“You seem to have a habit of turning up at …convenient moments,” Saito says.

Eames tries to slow his heart rate, and locks Stevie back in the car before turning back to Saito.

“Look,” he starts, holding his hands up weakly, “I know this looks weird, alright, I _know_ it does, but I promise I’m not on some stalker mission here. I’m literally just here because-“

“Mrs. Cobb ensured you were thanked for your services did she not? I think you would do well to remember that that exchange took place on the basis of various assumed sentiments,” Saito is actually standing with his hands behind his back.

Eames flushes, angry all of a sudden with the same righteous morality that takes over whenever this bloody paying-off thing is brought up. “It’s not about the money, alright? Jesus, I know that was hush money but I’m not here to stalk him or get some photo or story for the press – “

“Then why are you here Mr. Eames,” Saito interrupts again, voice deceptively measured given how assessing his eyes are.

“Because I want to see him!” Eames says, exasperated and embarrassed, “It sounds pathetic but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since New York and I just want to see him, okay? I would be happy with a ‘hi’ to be perfectly honest.”

Saito stares at him for a long moment, and then nods, ever so slightly, as though Eames has passed some kind of test. Then he turns around and disappears back into the shadows behind the building.

“Fucking ninja security,” Eames mutters, and climbs into the car. It’s still an hour until Ariadne is finished, but she had recently uploaded all of Arthur’s singles onto his phone, so without thinking too much about it, he puts them on shuffle and lies across the front seat. It’s been a long week and he’s exhausted.

It’s basically dark outside when Eames wakes up to someone knocking on the passenger side window. He jolts up into a sitting position, and opens the door without thinking –

“I’m sorry Ari, I was just resting my eyes and -“

He tails off when he realizes that it’s not Ariadne standing on the pavement.

Arthur is smiling at him curiously, his hands deep in the pockets of an incredible herringbone coat. His hair is artfully ruffled, just a little, and he’s watching Eames with unabashed amusement.

Eames picks his jaw off the floor and puts together a coherent sentence.

“Um. Blimey. Well, it’s good to see you, again. Sorry – I’m not actually stalking you.”

“I was the one who found you, so asides from the fact you just happen to be sleeping in a car 2 minutes away from where I’m being interviewed, apparently, ah, listening to my album,” the album has gone through to the bonus tracks and Eames flushes furiously as he jams the stereo off, “I guess I’m the one stalking you on this occasion.”

Arthur flashes him a grin, and Eames feels his knees go weak even though he’s sitting down.

Then Arthur says, “can I have a lift?” and is folding himself into the mini passenger side before Eames can actually have any further say in the matter.

“Oh, hi there dog,” Stevie is all over having a new person in the car and Eames has to shove him back with all his might to stop him slobbering in Arthur’s beautiful hair.

But Arthur laughs, “hey, don’t worry, I like dogs,” and while he’s distracted scratching Stevie’s ears Eames fires off a text to Ariadne.

[19:24] _seem to have found myself giving a lift to Arthur – assume you can get the tube back? fuck my life ari I s2g_

“Who was that?” Arthur says, a touch of anxiety colouring his voice.

“Ariadne – I was telling her to get the underground. She’d love to meet you, but she’s a horrific fangirl and I’m not sure it’s quite fair of me to subject you to that.”

Arthur smiles knowingly. “Actually, I’ve already met Ariadne. She was at the studio door and directed me to your car.”

“Oh god,” Eames says – the mental image is terrifying, “how bad was she?”

Arthur laughs, and it’s throaty and a little self-conscious and Eames thinks it’s ridiculously attractive.

“Not too bad. She cried a bit, and then told me she knew every lyric I’d ever written, and that she still has my calendar from 2 years ago on her fridge,” he casts Eames a sidelong look at this, “She was sweet. And then she hugged me so hard my security got a little uncomfortable, and cried some more, but honestly, I’ve had worse.”

“Coming from you, that isn’t actually much of a reassurance,” Eames says, and then, “where am I giving you a lift to?”

Arthur glances in the rearview mirror, and sighs.

“Anywhere away from them,” he mutters, the good humour suddenly gone.

Eames checks the mirror as well and balks. He’s never seen so many satellite dish vans in his life. He can see the camera flashes surrounding the studio exit from here. Even as he’s trying to headcount paparazzi he spies a few that have broken away from the crowd with their cameras and microphones and are making their way directly towards them.

“Jesus, how did you get away?”

“Ninja security,” Arthur says, grinning again, and Eames feels himself flush all over. “Now drive, Mr. Eames.”

Behind them, the errant paparazzi break into a run, and Eames sees a satellite van pull away from the curb, trundling down the road towards them.

 “On it,” Eames says, and reaches down to press a button below the window winder. A hideous blaring starts up immediately, and the dashboard is lit up with intermittent blue flashes from the light in the top corner of the windscreen.

Arthur stares at him. “You are _kidding.”_

Eames reaches for the stereo, shuffles his phone. He grins. A classic.

[The song comes on](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ZYgIrqELFw&ab_channel=FourLyrics). Eames whacks up the volume to full.

Arthur laughs like he can’t believe this is happening. “You are _kidding,_ ” he says again.

“Nope,” Eames says, and now it’s his turn to grin over at Arthur, “I’m a police officer, did I mention?” and he steps on the accelerator.

It’s not one of Eames’ finest moments in his employment tenure at the Metropolitan police force, but it’s certainly one of the most entertaining; shooting across Westminster Bridge and careering around the streets of London at twilight in a mini at 60mph, singing Smash Mouth at the top of his voice with a global superstar laughing hysterically in the seat next to him.

Eames’ backstreet knowledge and his ability in the mini, not to mention sheer nerve, let’s them overtake where no paparazzi van would dare follow. Soon, they’ve left the press far behind but Eames doesn’t slow down. Arthur has rolled down his window and the cool night air is filling the car, buffeting them both and Arthur is laughing like he can’t breathe, like the wind is stealing his breath and it’s so loud in the little tin can of a car with the air and music on full that Eames feels like he could scream at the top of his voice and no one would hear.

The song rolls onto the chorus and on cue they both look at each other, and Arthur knows the words _perfectly_ of course he does, and he’s drumming madly on the dash and god, this what it feels to be _alive_.

And then Arthur tries to roll the window up and it’s in that second that Eames remembers that the window is sticky on that side and so Arthur is left to struggle fruitlessly with the window for a good 20 seconds before giving up and now he’s _crying_ with laughter _,_ literal tears rolling down his cheeks.

Eames stomach lurches a little when it hits him that the last time he saw Arthur cry was the first time he met him.

But Arthur is nothing like that now. He’s like a wild thing, young and carefree and all dark curls whipping in the wind, still giggling (actually _giggling_ ) and wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his incredibly expensive coat.

He is, honestly, stunning.

Eames can barely take his eyes off him.

Which, Eames decides, is somewhat counterintuitive to driving, so he turns off the police siren and swings the car off onto a road which directs them towards UCL.

“Where are we going?” Arthur asks, voice a little hoarse from laughing, but Eames just taps the side of his nose.

A minute later, they’re pulling up alongside Russel Square.

It’s late now, the park is locked – but the streets are quiet around here, and it’s easy to slot the mini into a spot beneath the foliage spilling over the railings.

Without the siren and the wind and the music, it’s suddenly very quiet in the small car.

Stevie, totally unperturbed by the wild car ride, snores peacefully from the backseat.

“Didn’t this park use to be some major gay hang out?” Arthur says suddenly, biting his lower lip, “have you brought me to a gay hotspot to what, make out with me?”

Eames very nearly chokes on his own tongue.

“No! God no, I mean – yes, it was a hangout, until they started locking it - but no,” Eames laughs, feels a little hysterical about it, “no that wasn’t the plan. Though making out is usually a not too-terrible idea.”

Arthur grins at him, teeth glinting in the half light.

“Your music taste is terrible and you drive like a maniac. I can’t believe you’re actually employed as a police officer.”

Eames shrugs, intensely grateful for the subject change. “Hey, I wasn’t born into a life of crime fighting.” He thinks about it for a second. “If I’m being honest, I _was_ the crime for a while. Joyriding was inevitable.”

Arthur doesn’t look surprised by this – Eames guesses he’d already figured that part of his life out from the whole Princes’ Trust donation.

“Well, law-breaking aside, guys who drive like maniacs tend to be my type,” Arthur says, and there is absolutely no mistaking the blatant flirtation.

Eames stares at him, stunned.

“Um, thank you?”

Arthur twists himself in his seat to shrug off his coat and sits back up, scrubbing a hand through his hair, loosening it even more. Eames can barely make out his expression in the orange glow of the street lamps outside, but there’s a slight tension to it that hadn’t been there before.

“So making-out? You’re up for it, great, okay,” Arthur says, and then abruptly leans forward and is kissing him.

Eames, for a long second, has no idea how to react. Arthur’s mouth on his is demanding, insistent, and god, okay, he smells incredible and it wasn’t like Eames hadn’t been thinking about this since New York but something was also very, very wrong.

He pulls back, a hand on Arthur’s chest to hold him back.

“Woah, woah, hold on a second.”

He feels Arthur tense up beneath his palm - his face falls.

“I thought you were down for that,” Arthur says, voice rough already and _god_ that shouldn’t do the things it does to Eames.

He swallows, mouth dry.

“Yeah,” he says, “yeah, I am. But you don’t have to, alright? And we don’t have to go so… fast.”

Arthur moves back, stiff now, all trace of the wild-haired laughing boy in the passenger seat long gone. Eames can almost see the shutters come back down.

“Up on the rooftop – you offered me your jacket. When I was on the railing,” Arthur says, and it sounds like an accusation.

And this… was not the way Eames had expected the conversation to go.

“You were freezing. Of course I did.”

Irritation flashes across Arthur’s face. “I’m not some damsel in distress, Eames. I wasn’t then and I’m not now. I’m not a head-case either.”

Eames raises an eyebrow at him, feeling slightly irritated himself.

“I never said you were.”

“What’s this all about then?”

“This,” and Eames gestures between the two of them, working to keep his voice measured, “is common courtesy Arthur. You’re an incredible person, but I’ve been in your actual company for all of, what, an hour? In total? My apologies but that’s not the way I do things.”

Arthur watches him, jaw working, and then abruptly falls back into the seat, like all the sexual bravado and anger has left him in one go.

They sit in the quiet for a moment; a real police siren screeches down the road on the far side of the park, blue flashing lights visible through the trees.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, and his voice is quiet now, tinged with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, that I read things wrong. I didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Don’t worry, you didn’t read it wrong. I just – just don’t want you to rush into things you might regret,” Eames says.

Arthur rolls his head on the headrest to look at him.

“I’m capable of making my own decisions, you might be surprised to know. People usually are,” he says, but it’s not defensive, only honest.

Eames stares right back at him. “Forgive me if I have first-hand evidence to the contrary that said-decisions are not always the right ones,” he says, just a little coldly.

Arthur flinches a little, and Eames feels a pang of echoing pain in his chest.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, laughing under his breath, “I guess I deserved that.”

“Not deserved… just reminded,” Eames amends.

“You should take up life counselling as a second profession. The accent is very reassuring; people would pay extra.”

“There’s an idea. Maybe then I’d stand a chance of earning as much as you do in a day,” Eames has no idea what makes him say it, what makes him parrot back the words that had so offended him after that fateful press conference.

Only Arthur groans and closes his eyes.

“God, I said that didn’t I? I can’t believe I said that.”

“You did,” Eames is grinning a little now that he thinks about it. “It was incredible. Easily the most classist thing I’ve ever heard.”

It’s hard to tell in the dark of the car, but Eames thinks Arthur is blushing.

“Man, I am sorry for that,” and Arthur genuinely does sound contrite. “I’d tell you that that was my manager’s words but I know that’s just a lame excuse.”

“No, I’d believe you,” Eames says, and when Arthur opens his eyes to look at him disbelievingly he smiles properly, “I would. Because although it was a dick move, it was startlingly out of character with everything else I now know about you. And you’ve got to remember I was a dick right back at you, so that made things even.”

It’s meant to be reassuring, only Arthur looks straight down at his hands, fingers twisting into each other, and he laughs nervously.

“I’m afraid you probably don’t know as much about me as you think.”

He’s so young, Eames thinks, he’s so famous and rich but still so _young._

“I don’t know,” he says, “a guy who donates stupid amounts of money to charities instead of sending a text as an apology? A guy who makes stuttering small talk in the middle of New York despite the very real risk of being mobbed by fans? A guy who gets in an ancient mini that really should be written off just because? I feel I know quite a bit.”

“I feel like I tend to let people down when I meet them in person,” Arthur says quickly, and then looks mildly horrified, as though he immediately regrets speaking.

Eames laughs. “You have ridiculous expectations to live up to, an image that’s been created by the best PR advisors and make-up artists in the business. It’s hardly surprising.”

Arthur doesn’t look satisfied. If anything, he looks more tense. His mouth is a hard line like he doesn’t trust himself to say anything else.

Eames thinks carefully about phrasing a way of reassuring him.

“You don’t have to live up to those expectations here mate, in this car. I know I’m not your therapist and if we’re honest we barely know each other – but you can talk freely here. I won’t judge, and I won’t go the press. I promise, and I keep my promises.”

Arthur lets out a controlled breath, and looks across at him, expression impossibly grateful.

“Thank you. I, um, kind of have 50 million followers on Instagram and no actual friends, apart from maybe Taylor Swift and kinda Ed Sheeran through her but I think she’s only really hanging out with me because she wants to make Calvin Harris jealous even though I’m gay and she knows this, but thank you for being the first person to say that. In like, forever.”

Eames is just a little bit stunned.

“I thought Justin Timberlake and you were like that?” He crosses his fingers, holding them up.

Arthur laughs. “He invited me to one party. He’s a nice guy and he gave me a bit of pep talk, but no, we’re not best friends. That was last year anyway, I’m amazed you even know about that.”

Eames smiles grimly. “You forget – I live with your number one fan. She makes it her business to know as much about you as humanly possible.”

It’s Arthur’s turn to grin now.

“The novelty of having fans will never wear off – what would she do if we just went back to your place now and surprised her?”

Eames looks at him very seriously.

“She would scream so much our neighbours would call the police.”

“You are the police.”

“You know what I mean. The other police. Probably other officers I know and it would be awful and embarrassing to have to arrest my flatmate for public disturbance. Anyway, don’t you have other places to be than my dodgy flat?”

Arthur makes a face. “Yes, but they’re all infinitely less exciting.”

Eames glances at his watch. It’s the glow in the dark Stormtrooper one Ariadne had given to him for his birthday.

“Christ – we really should be getting you back.”

It’s pitch black outside now, and it’s starting to get cold in the mini. Eames rubs his hands together, blowing on them.

“Anywhere I can take you specifically?”

“Leicester Square – I’ll walk from there.”

Eames looks across at him. Arthur’s staring hard out the front, his profile illuminated in the stark shadows of the street lights. He looks suddenly very tired.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No don’t worry – I’ll appreciate the walk alone.”

“Arthur –“

“Eames,” Arthur interrupts, and he’s smiling now, almost sounding fond, “I’ll be fine. I spend my life swamped by security. It’s dark – I won’t get recognised.”

“Its _London_ ,” Eames presses, “on a Saturday night.”

“Then I’ll make sure I run really, really fast if needs be,” Arthur says easily, and won’t let Eames say another word on it.

It’s a short drive to Leicester Square, and though less exhilarating than the speeding through the streets with the windows sown of earlier it’s a comfortable quiet in the car. Eames pulls up in a side street, and Arthur turns up his collar to hide the lower half of his face, ruffles his hair up even more out of its characteristic slicked style.

“Your hair looks good like that,” Eames says, because it’s true.

Arthur smiles at him, wide and boyish. And then he leans across the seat and kisses Eames lightly, chastely, on the cheek.

“Thank you, Eames,” and then, he’s out and off into the night, winding around the corner with his head ducked into his coat before Eames can so much as recover.

Eames is left sitting in car by the side of the road, wondering what the hell the last two hours were.

And realising how infinitely more far gone he now is for Arthur than he ever was before.

“Bloody hell,” he says, and lets his head drop onto the car horn.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur has a realisation about Life; Eames deals with an early morning encounter on a Bad Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....sup friends
> 
> (thanks for the continuing comments on this, you're too kind xox Promise I haven't abandoned this, just wanting to do it justice ((defo gonna be more than 10 chapters at this rate))

Leicester Square is thrumming with life, Arthur thinks he remembers hearing something about some sort of premiere going on, something with Chris Pratt in, so he keeps his head low and decides to take a detour.

The evening May air is brisk, whipping through his coat unforgivingly, but it’s refreshing too. Cold and real and anchoring him in the moment.

New York is and will always be home, but there’s something about London he loves. The city is alive on a Saturday night, and Arthur feels alive with it.

He ducks into the alcove outside St Martins-in-the-Fields, and leans back against one of the huge sandstone pillars, pulling his coat tighter around him.

Trafalgar Square is less hectic, it’s pushing midnight after all, but there’s still plenty of people about. A group of teenagers are trying and failing to climb one of the huge bronze lions around Nelson’s Column, their laughter carrying on the wind as one of them slides inelegantly off the lion’s back. Nearby there’s a couple sitting on the lip of one of the fountains, heads close together, oblivious to the world around them. An off-duty black taxi cab passes the church, Abba’s ‘Waterloo’ playing at full volume through the windows.

Arthur takes a second to breathe, aware his heart is only just about slowing down to something resembling a normal pace.

The slight stubble from Eames’ cheek is still tingling his lips from when Arthur kissed him.

God.

He doesn’t want to think too closely about the frankly terrifying torrent of emotion threatening to overwhelm him right now. He’s split somewhere between acute embarrassment from his aborted attempt at making-out with Eames, horror, at being reminded of his own impossibly offensive comments to the man who’d saved his life, and something like giddy, adolescent joy that the rejection hadn’t been an outright one of disgust.

_“Don’t worry, you didn’t read it wrong. I just – just don’t want you to rush into things you might regret.”_

Eames said that. Arthur hadn’t read him completely wrong. He just didn’t want to rush things.

_“Your hair looks good like that.”_

Why had such a simple, generic compliment made him feel like his stomach was about to drop out? Fucking hell, that shouldn’t be allowed.

Somewhere, surely, there must be a rule against that.

As it turned out, even though Arthur sang about falling in love all the goddamned time, he’d had no idea what he was fucking talking about it.

Arthur laughs aloud, a little hysterically, and tries to smother it in the collar of his coat.

He feels reckless, dizzy; he feels like he wants to call in a favour from Saito’s connections and find out Eames’ address and just turn up at his door, maybe with flowers for Ariadne and another kiss on the cheek for Eames. He wants Eames to take him out in his stupid car again, take him to somewhere where people won’t recognise him, where they’ll be able to go for a walk with Eames’ dog without the paparazzi hounding them, walk and talk for as long as they like. He wants to sit down and talk properly with Ariadne, ask her why, _really_ why, she likes his music so much, what he does that works and what he needs to do better, and he wants to ask her about Eames, the real Eames, about the selfless, gorgeous police officer who’d been in Arthur’s life no more than 3 months and already saved it once, and injected the rest of it with more colour and surprise and feeling than Arthur can remember-

Suddenly, he realises what’s happening to him.

He no longer feels numb.

His hands have lost all sensation from the cold and his ears are threatening to go the same way but god, his heart and lungs and everything else is on fucking fire with _feeling_. Emotion. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it.

This deep in the heart of the city, the light pollution almost all but blotted out the night sky. But up above Arthur could still see the moon, hanging wearily above the National Gallery, and a few stars winking faintly in the black.

Arthur finds the dimmest star, the one that’s perhaps furthest away, and stares at it hard.

_Mom, Dad, I think you’d really like him. I really do._

He knows they would.

Arthur feels, as he tends to now and again, acutely aware of his age. He feels young and stupid and in some ways as rash and heedless as he had when he’d climbed that railing back in February.

Except back then, life felt like nothing. An intangible, unknowable thing everyone else seemed to be good at, everyone else seemed to be grateful for, and something that he just apparently had forgotten how to do. He just wasn’t _good_ at living anymore, he’d concluded, so he might as well stop.

Now, Arthur feels full of it. Like there’s more life in him than he can bear, like he is still careering across the Thames in a vintage mini, yelling at the top of his voice.

Lyrics begin to formulate in his head, aligning themselves above a series of minor chords that Arthur usually tripped through as a warm up exercise.

Arthur pulls out his phone, and dials the international number.

Taylor, bless her, picks up on the third ring.

“Hey Artie! How’s London?”

“Taylor, if you’ve got a minute, and a piano nearby, I’ve had an idea for a song.”

There’s a muffled crash in the background, and an indignant squawking sound that is most definitely Meredith.

“I’ve got both. I’m all yours. Ooh this is so exciting Arthur, we haven’t had a late night song writing session in forever – what’s brought this on?”

Arthur grins, biting his lip.

“I’m trying desperately to think of a way to say this that isn’t cliché-“

There’s an intelligible squeal from the phone that most definitely isn’t a cat.

“ARTHUR PLEASE TELL ME IT’S THE POLICE OFFICER. PLEASE.”

Arthur laughs, feeling ridiculous. “I’m that transparent even from 5,000km away?”

“Always,” Taylor says fervently, “okay, I want to hear all about it. No censoring please, every detail. You can’t write a song until you’ve got the story. And I need to hear the story.”

Arthur settles down on the church steps; he doesn’t really feel cold anymore. It must be gone midnight now and Mal and Dom were going to literally murder him when he got back in, but right now, he couldn’t care less.

“Okay, so have I ever told you how much I love that stupid Smash Mouth song?”

 

* * *

 

Eames wakes up to the sound of Stevie barking.

Loudly.

He scrubs at his face and blinks blearily at the bedside clock.

7:17am.

A reasonable enough time for a weekday, if Eames had had a reasonable shift the day before. Except he hadn’t, and he’d only collapsed into bed about 3 hours ago.

Eames gets to his feet, staggering a little and a hand going to the sharp, stabbing pain at his side. He’d had his ribs bandaged by the paramedics the night before, but they still hurt like a bitch. His face felt fat and puffy too, and he knew he’d have one hell of a black eye in the light of day.

The knocking on their apartment door continues, insistent, and Stevie whines, abandoning his barking to come and find Eames. He stands expectantly at the door, tail wagging.

“Alright mate, I’m right here.”

Eames limps his way across the kitchen and unlocks the triple bolt; Ariadne had spent the night at a friends, which was just as well bearing in mind the state Eames had arrived home last night.

He opens the door to Arthur, in all his tailored coat and ruffled hair glory, looking thoroughly out of place standing in Eames’ dingy corridor.

Eames’ mouth drops open.

Arthur’s eyes meanwhile widen in abject horror.

“Jesus _Christ_ Eames, what the fuck happened to you?” and he’s elbowing past Eames into the apartment, going straight to Eames’ freezer without a second’s hesitation.

“Arthur,” Eames says, somewhat belatedly, “how did you-? What are you-“

“Saito made it is his business to find out your home address, sorry, standard protocol,” Arthur says, not really sounding very sorry. He turns to Eames with a bag of frozen peas, and grabs a tea towel, wrapping them up.

“Seriously, you don’t have to –“ Eames tries, but then Arthur has pushed him down into one of the breakfast bar stools with surprising strength, and is gingerly pressing the frozen peas to the side of Eames’ swollen face.

Arthur looks at him carefully, dark eyes assessing.

“You sure you don’t have a concussion? That looks like it was one hell of a punch.”

Eames grimaces, bites back a smile. “If only. It was a kettle actually.”

Arthur raises one eyebrow, looking conflicted between concerned and amused.

“A kettle?”

“Yeah. Late-night raid. The lady of the house wasn’t too happy about us arresting her son for manslaughter. Turns out the kettle was the nearest handheld weapon at her disposal.”

Arthur’s lips quirk in a smile.

“And you had to stop her? With your face?”

Eames sighs, he feels bone-tired, and he knows Arthur’s just kidding, just teasing him, but honestly, he’s not really feeling it.

“Yes, I did. It’s my job.”

“A job that requires you getting yourself beaten bloody? I’m kinda invested in your face, I feel I should say.” Arthur’s flushing, just a little, and Eames feels himself heat in response, though not quite in the same way.

“I’m a police officer, Arthur. It’s not all uniform and standing on ceremony, you know that.”

“Yeah, but that part is the most fun,” Arthur says, smiling, and turns to set about making himself coffee at Ariadne’s ridiculously fancy machine.

Eames’ head is starting to pound, the painkillers he’d taken the night before beginning to wear off, and something about the ease with which Arthur is helping himself to their kitchen, raising an eyebrow at the calendar on the fridge before opening it for the milk, the casual comfort of someone who is used to being able to do what the hell they like, used to people bending over backwards to facilitate his every need – it makes Eames bristle a little.

Call it his working class roots if you will, but you bloody wait to be invited to someone’s house as opposed to turning up at their door unannounced.

“Actually, I don’t have coffee first thing in the morning,” he says, “before 10 it’s tea.”

Arthur starts, seeming to suddenly realise what he’s doing, but without hesitation he unplugs the kettle to fill it up instead.

“Thanks for the other night,” he’s saying, back to Eames still, “for being my get-away driver. And for… well, for the drive.”

Eames smiles a little despite himself, “you’re welcome.”

“Mal went ballistic, but it was worth it. I haven’t had that much fun in ages. It’s a bit embarrassing how long it’s been really.”

He turns to lean against the worktop, surveying Eames and Ariadne’s apartment.

“You’ve got a cute place, by the way.”

Eames shifts the peas on his face, the blood rushing back into the parts that had been numbed by the cold.

“Cute as in small you mean? Sorry we can’t provide penthouse views, mate.”

Arthur laughs, “no, I meant it as a compliment. It’s a nice… room. Even if the hosting leaves something to be desired.”

Eames feels like he could fall asleep sitting up, if he’s entirely honest, and he leans against the island, forgetting for a moment that leaning against anything with his ribs right now is a terrible, _terrible_ idea. He fails badly at hiding his hiss of pain, and stands up instead, too sore to be sitting anywhere right now.

“Arthur,” he grates out, suddenly very, very done, actually, “look, no offence, but what do you want? You come over at stupid o’clock having procured my address from your bodyguard, which is pretty creepy by the way, to what, compliment our home-furnishings and help yourself to coffee? I’m sorry but I’m really not in the mood for hosting, I’ve had a pretty shit 24 hours and am running on less than 3 hours of sleep right now.”

Arthur looks abruptly, painfully awkward, and stands up, messing his hair and straightening his coat, turning the kettle off.

“Fuck, yeah, I’m sorry, I just wanted to see you before I fly home but - yeah, this was – “

“Hey,” now Eames feels bad, it’s not _fair_ how Arthur always does this, “no, it’s okay, I just – “

Arthur has frozen, hands stilling on the worktop where he was packing back up the tea supplies.

His hand lands on a bright pink business card.

“What the fuck is this?” he says, voice controlled and deathly quiet.

Eames squints through his good eye, recalling the sleazy bloke in the tube stop nearest the station who’d shoved the card into his hand.

“Some reporter gave it to me.”

Arthur’s back is a line of tension, and he turns. His expression is impossible to read.

“This is Perez Hilton’s personal card. His private number.”

“Oh,” Eames says, the name matching the face from the tube, “yeah. I guess it might be. I haven’t called him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But you accepted the card?” Arthur’s hand holding the pink card is shaking, ever so slightly.

Eames frowns, wincing as the action pulls on his abused face.

“Yes, I took the bloody card Arthur. Because when I’ve got a dozen being shoved under my nose every goddamned day sometimes it’s easier to just take them.”

“So you just kept this one? What, for prosperity? In case I confessed something particularly _noteworthy_ to you on our escapes around the capital?”

And now Eames is properly angry. He’s aware of Stevie slinking out of the room, tail between his legs like he does whenever voices are raised.

“No, of course I bloody didn’t,” Eames says, trying to keep his voice level, “I just haven’t had chance to throw it out Arthur, because you know, I’m a bit busy with a full-time job in case you hadn’t noticed-“

“Which I wouldn’t understand anything about, of course,” Arthur sneers, “that’s no fucking excuse for this and you know it - I don’t think I have remind you how much my managers paid you to-“

“For fuck’s SAKE,” Eames yells, and he slams the fucking peas on the worktop, “will you people _shut up about money?!”_

“You know what they say about protesting too much,” Arthur says, bitterly, and he drops the card to the table. “Tell Perez I said hi. Goodbye Mr. Eames.”

“Arthur you complete _twat,_ I’m not-“

Except Arthur is already gone, gone and out of the front door in a swirl of Saville Row coat and faint cologne.

And Eames is left standing in his kitchen, chest heaving, with a bag of rapidly defrosting peas making the post all soggy.


End file.
